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Blind  Lead 


THE  STORY  OF  A  MINE. 


^Y    ^v^)  W..^;^ 


JOSEPHINE  Iw.'  BATES 


philadei<phia: 
J.   B.  LIPPINCOTT   COMPAlSrY. 

1888. 


MM- 


Copyright,  1888,  by  Josephine  W.  Bates. 


•  •    •    « 


CONTENTS. 


CHAFTER  PAOB 

I. — The  Miner's  Family 5 

II.— Colusa 13 

III.— The  EgcHER 22 

IV.— The  Watburns  ..  .   . 30 

v.— Ellen- 36 

VI.— The  Trophies 44 

VII. — The  Komp  of  the  Camp 52 

VIII. — A  Discussion  of  Principles 59 

IX. — Robert  Hall 71 

X. — In  the  Mountain  Park 83 

XI.— The  Prospect 91 

XII.— The  "Silterline" 101 

XIII. — Arranged 113 

XIV.— A  Change  of  Heads 124 

XV.— A  Great  Bargain 130 

XVI.— Nemesis 136 

XVII.— The  Bit  uv  Money 142 

XVIII. — Congratulations  ! 151 

XIX.— Released 160 

XX. — The  Miner  and  his  Mine 165 

XXL— Which? 176 

XXII.— A  Higher  Call 182 

XXIII.— Three  Years  After 193 

XXIV.— A  Party 197 

XXV.— A  Great  Day 207 


qS 


Copyright,  1888,  by  Josephine  W.  Bates. 


»     •  •  •    •  •    • 

•  •  •*•  "•  •    • 

• •    •  •.  •  «    • 


•!•.. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PA.GH 

I. — The  Miner's  Family 6 

II. — Colusa 13 

III.— The  Ectcher 22 

IV.— The  Watburns  .   .   .   .  ^ 30 

v.— Ellen 36 

VI. — The  Trophies 44 

VII. — The  Komp  of  the  Camp 62 

VIII. — A  Discussion  of  Principles 69 

IX.— Robert  Hall 71 

X. — In  the  Mountain  Park 83 

XI.— The  Prospect 91 

XII.— The  "Silverline" 101 

XIIL— Arranged 113 

XIV. — A  Change  of  Heads 124 

XV.— A  Great  Bargain 130 

XVI.— Nemesis 136 

XVII.— The  Bit  uy  Money 142 

XVIII. — Congratulations 151 

XIX.— Released 160 

XX. — The  Miner  and  his  Mine 165 

XXI.— Which  ? 176 

XXII.— A  Higher  Call 182 

XXIII.— Three  Years  After 193 

XXIV.— A  Party 197 

XXV.— A  Great  Day 207 


!vii38'^4^ 


4  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTEK  PA.OK 

XXVI.— Jebold's  DiyiDBRS 212 

XXVII.— A  Revelation 217 

XXVIII.— The  Conflict 223 

XXIX.— On  the  Height • 228 

,       XXX.— A  Last  Appeal 233 

XXXI.— Free 242 

XXXII.—"  Mine" 249 


A  BLIND  LEAD, 


CHAPTER  I. 


At  the  upper  edge  of  the  camp,  close  under  the 
rocky  hill-side,  stood  a  low  log  house.  It  did  not 
differ  from  its  neighbors  in  form  or  construction :  the 
same  rough-hewn  logs  and  mud-mortar;  the  same 
protruding  stove-pipe;  the  same  unplaned  doors, 
small  square  windows,  and  projecting  dirt  roof  be- 
longed to  all.  Still,  about  this  house  there  was  some- 
thing distinctive.  It  stood  last  on  the  slope,  and  was 
shut  in  and  separated  from  the  rest  by  a  rough  board 
fence.  In  the  yard,  though  the  thin,  gritty  soil 
scarcely  covered  the  rock,  two  small  flower-beds 
were  outlined  by  borders  of  marble  quartz,  amid 
which  gleamed  specimens  of  azurite,  peacock  ores, 
and  pink  manganese.  Some  roses  and  pansies  were 
growing  in  the  beds  but  they  were  dwarfed,  and  hung 

1*  6 


•    ••.••• 


'•'•^  ;•*:  .'••:•.'  *::  ..lA-'BiMiND  lead. 

limp  and  almost  lifeless.  The  same  rock  border  de- 
fined a  path  which,  hard  and  smooth-swept,  led  from 
the  gate  to  the  door,  where  a  bare  stone  served  as  a 
step. 

The  house  had  become  somewhat  browned  with  age, 
which  lent  it  a  sombre  effect,  but  the  dinginess  was 
neutralized  by  a  plain  white  curtain  which  hung  at  the 
window,  and  restored  to  the  simple  structure  its  aspect 
of  wholesomeness. 

In  the  door-way,  looking  across  the  hills  and  shad- 
ing her  eyes  against  the  evening  sun,  was  standing  a 
woman  of  about  thirty-five.  In  her  arms  she  held 
a  little  child,  whose  face  was  shiny  and  suggested  a 
recent  application  of  soap,  and  whose  neat  checked 
apron  showed  in  its  even  creases  that  it  had  just  been 
donned.  The  mother  was  dressed  simply,  in  a  close- 
fitting  gown  of  cheap  gingham  relieved  only  by  a  col- 
lar at  the  throat.  Her  hair,  originally  brown,  was 
faintly  streaked  with  gray,  and  her  mouth,  though 
gentle  in  its  expression,  had  a  way  of  tightening  in  the 
corners  which  bespoke  a  life  of  endurance  or  self-sup- 
pression. It  relaxed  now  into  a  smile  and  her  eyes 
brightened  pleasantly  as,  glancing  out,  she  beheld  a 
man  toiling  up  the  steep  and  trotting  along  beside 
him  a  lovely  little  girl. 

The  man  was  dressed  in  the  garb  of  a  miner :  a 
blue  flannel  shirt;  clay-stained  overalls  tucked  into  a 


THE  MINER'S  FAMILY.  7 

pair  of  high-top  rubber  boots,  which  were  held  up  by 
a  piece  of  rope  tied  around  the  waist;  and  a  soft 
slouch  hat  none  the  better  for  its  length  of  service 
and  its  plentiful  drops  of  candle-grease.  On  his 
shoulder  he  carried  a  pick  and  shovel,  and  in  his 
hand  swung  a  dinner-pail.  As  he  walked  his  voice 
was  blended  with  that  of  the  child,  who  trudged 
beside  him  laughing  and  chattering,  and  holding  now 
by  his  hand,  now  by  his  loose  boot-top. 

As  the  miner  caught  sight  of  the  figure  in  the  door- 
way he  waved  his  hand,  and  the  baby  in  her  arms 
began  to  kick  and  crow.  She  set  him  down  on  the 
floor  and  passed  to  the  kitchen  to  pour  the  water  into 
the  teapot  and  complete  the  preparations  for  supper. 

One  noted  in  following  her  the  order  and  cleanliness 
everywhere.  The  three  rooms  into  which  the  house 
was  partitioned,  kitchen,  sitting-room,  and  bedroom, 
were  so  neat  as  to  almost  beget  discomfort.  Tliat  the 
occupants  were  above  the  commoner  class  of  workers 
one  could  infer,  for  in  the  sitting-room,  rather  than  in 
the  kitchen,  was  spread  the  evening  meal,  and  instead 
of  the  checked  oil-cloth  or  the  bare  board,  a  clean  white 
cloth  adorned  the  table.  Everything,  however,  was  of 
the  cheapest  and  plainest. 

When  the  woman  had  finished  her  simple  prepara- 
tions, she  returned  to  the  door  in  time  to  see  the  baby 
caught  up  in  a  pair  of  strong  arms  and  hear  the  clap- 


8  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

ping  and  shouting  as  he  was  tossed  again  and  again 
in  the  air. 

"  Thar,  thar !  Set  down  that  heavy  child.  You're 
clear  gev  out  to-night,  I  know,"  she  said,  taking  the 
baby  from  the  miner's  arms  and  putting  it  upon  the 
floor  again. 

"  Wal,  yes,  'Liz'bith,  I  be  some  tired,"  he  answered, 
with  a  touch  of  weariness.  "Fust  day  kind  uv 
knocks  a  man  out,  ye  know.  I'll  git  the  stiflP'nin' 
outer  me  t'-morrow  all  right.  It  takes  a  while  t' 
limber  up." 

"  Whar  d'ye  seem  to  feel  the  tire  most, — in  yer 
arms?"  the  wife  asked,  sympathetically. 

"  No,  here  in  the  chist.  It  feels  a  little  knotty  in 
here,  but  thet's  nothin',  thet's  nothin'.  So'thin'  t' 
eat  '11  take  the  creek  outer  me."  He  dropped  into  a 
chair  and,  tossing  his  hat  upon  the  floor,  stretched  out 
with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"I  thought  like  enough  ye'd  come  home  petered 
out,"  said  Elizabeth,  noting  the  attitude,  "so  I  fixed 
so'thin'  a  little  extry.  Hurry  an'  clean  up  an'  I'll  set 
it  on." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  miner  had  washed,  removed 
his  overalls,  and  changed  his  rubber  boots.  The 
family  then  seated  themselves  for  supper. 

"Why,  Liz'bith,  woman,  what's  this, — a  feast?"  the 
miner  asked,  surveying  the  table  and  smacking  his  lips 


THE  MINER'S  FAMILY.  9 

in  anticipated  relish.  "  Ye'd  ought  to  told  me  so's  I 
could  trick  out  a  bit.'' 

"  Wal,  Ellen  fetched  the  honey,  an'  I  thought  a  taste 
uv  that  ole  cake  ye  was  so  fond  of  'ud  kind  o'  go  to  the 
right  spot.  Ellen  said  she  thought  ye'd  need  a  little 
settin'  up  to-night." 

"  She's  a  good  woman,  Ellen  is,"  he  commented. 

The  children  now  caught  sight  of  the  dainties  and 
cried  out  to  be  helped  to  them ;  so  in  hungry 
silence  for  a  time  they  all  applied  themselves  to  the 
supper. 

When  the  first  sharp  craving  of  appetite  was  satis- 
fied the  father  and  mother  drifted  into  talking  again. 
Meanwhile,  the  baby  leaned  over  occasionally  to  trans- 
fer a  morsel  from  its  own  to  its  father's  plate,  or  to 
drop  something  into  his  tea,  while  the  little  girl  paused 
frequently  to  stroke  his  hand  or  cheek  and  assure 
him  he  was  a  "nice  papa." 

"  How's  th'  mine  seem  t'  look,  John  ?"  Elizabeth 
asked  suddenly  across  the  table. 

"Fust-rate,  fust-rate,"  he  answered  with  zest. 
"  I'll  tie  to  th'  Eucher  an'  stake  my  last  dollar  on  her. 
She's  got  the  lead ;  thar  ain't  no  gettin'  roun'  thet  ter 
my  mind." 

His  wife  sipped  her  tea  mechanically  and  looked  on 
absently  at  the  baby  breaking  its  bread  and  throwing 
it  over  the  arm  of  the  chair  to  the  floor.     But  after  a 


10  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

moment  she  recovered,  shook  her  head  at  the  child,  and 
observed,  in  a  tone  wherein  a  fine  ear  might  detect  an 
accent  of  scepticism, — 

"  I  hope  so,  John ;  we'll  gev  her  a  fair  show  any- 
how. Ye'd  never  be  content  till  ye'd  a-sampled  what's 
down  thar  now." 

"  No,  I  can't  be  content  t'  never  hev  nothin',  nothin'. 
I  must  hev  it,  an'  th'  only  way  to  git  it  is  to  strike  it, 
an'  I'm  agoin'  to  strike  it,  right  thar  in  th'  Eucher." 

"  This  here's  yer  last  chance,  ye  know,  John.  Ye've 
gev  yer  word  to  quit  ef  this  claim  don't  turn  out  rich." 

"Yes,  an'  I'll  hold  to  it.  Ye  see  I'm  safe  ter 
promise,"  he  said,  smiling,  "  cos  thar's  the  vein  plain  in 
sight,  es  clean  in  place  es  the  road  yon'er.  It's  small 
yet,  but  it  widens  out  more  an'  more.  It's  the  very 
Peerless  ore  too,  'Liz'bith,  I'm  satisfied,  fer  we  got 
spec'mens  from  the  two  claims  this  mornin'  jest  outer 
cur'os'ty  an'  tuk  'em  to  th'  assayer,  an'  he  couldn't  tell 
which  war  which." 

The  wife's  face  brightened  pleasantly ;  a  prospect  of 
Peerless  ore  was  a  warrant  for  cheer,  since  it  had  made 
the  fortunes  of  four  penniless  miners  in  its  time. 

"  If  it  could  be  so !"  she  pondered. 

"  Be  so  ?  Why,  woman,  it  is  so,"  he  said,  excitedly. 
"  I've  dreamt  o'  nights  fer  months  uv  thet  'ar  lead ;  an' 
ezactly  es  it  lays  thar  now,  I've  saw  it  in  my  sleep, 
time  an'  time  ag'in.     I  tell  ye,  by  winter  we'll  hev 


THE  MINER'S  FAMILY.  H 

sunk  an'  struck  the  Peerless  vein.  How  of 'n,"  he  went 
on,  enthusiastically,  "hev  yer  been  told  that  ev'ry 
miner's  got  ter  fail  an'  fail  an'  fail  ag'in  ?  But  onct  in 
his  life  fortune  comes  t'  'em  all,  an'  now  it's  come  to 
me.  You've  worked  an'  scrimped  an'  stud  by  me," 
he  added,  in  a  softened  tone.  "  An'  it's  yours,  Liz'- 
bith,  yours  an'  th'  childer's, — ter  tli'  last  bit." 

The  golden-haired  child  had  been  sitting  in  silence 
vainly  trying  to  get  at  the  meaning  of  the  conversation. 
His  last  word  seemed  to  enlighten  her,  for  she  broke 
out, — 

"  An'  Osie  shall  hev  dat  music  down  to  the  store  ?" 

The  miner  smiled  indulgently  and  patted  her  cheek. 

"  Osie  can  hev  it  ?'*  she  insisted,  pulling  his  sleeve 
to  insure  attention. 

The  wants  of  the  child  he  loved  seemed  to  awaken 
a  new  energy  in  the  father.  As  he  glanced  down  at 
her  his  mouth  grew  firm  and  hard. 

"  Papa,  Osie  wants  it  so  bad !  Oo  must  pick  hard, 
cos  Osie  tan't  wait." 

"  Papa  will  pick  hard,"  the  miner  replied,  with  a 
ring  of  clear  resolve  in  the  tones. 

"  Ye  mustn't  mind  Rosie's  chatterin'.  She's  nothin' 
but  a  child,"  Elizabeth  said  in  reproof. 

"  Papa  will  pick  hard ;  Rosie  shall  hev  it,"  he  re- 
peated in  the  same  tone,  and  rose  from  the  table. 

Either  the  stiffness  had  passed  out  of  his  joints  or 


12  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

he  was  now  superior  to  it,  for  his  step  was  quick  and 
decisive.  Taking  the  baby  again  in  his  arms,  the 
miner  seated  himself,  as  he  did  nightly,  on  the  stone 
door-step,  while  the  mother  busied  herself  putting 
away  the  tea-things. 


CHAPTER    11. 


COLUSA. 


The  mining-camp  of  Colusa  is  perched  high  up 
among  the  crests  of  the  Rockies.  The  camp  itself 
lies  along  the  slope  of  a  mountain,  and  Trom  it  we 
look  away  over  mountains  and  mountains  endlessly. 
They  tower  up  behind  and  pile  themselves  against 
the  heavens  everywhere.  AYe  feel  hemmed  in  and 
depressed.  The  eye  seeks  in  vain  to  rest  itself  in  the 
sweep  of  open  stretches:  it  longs  to  gaze  over  sunlit 
fields  of  waving  grain,  where  thought  is  hushed  and 
the  senses  are  filled  with  sweet  languor,  or  out  upon 
the  moving  sea,  where  fancy  can  revel  and  imagination 
lose  itself  in  the  uncertain  horizon.  Here  the  vision 
is  cut  off  abruptly.  Through  the  passes  we  strain  for 
a  glimpse  of  the  beyond,  but  find  only  peaks,  peaks. 

At  the  bases  and  in  the  valleys  grows  sparsely  a  low 
bunch-grass,  which  dies  out  up  the  slopes.  Towards 
the  summit  in  some  places  are  forests  of  slim  pine- 
trees,  but  the  mountain-sides  are  mostly  bare.  When 
the  sun  shines  and  lends  its  coloring,  the  outlook  is 
not  without  beauty;   the   dull  yellow  of  the  valley 

2  13 


14  -4   BLIND  LEAD. 

shades,  on  the  swelling  foot-hills,  into  a  deep  gold, 
then  into  the  brown  of  the  rocks,  or  the  black  of  the 
far  pine  woods,  while  above  gleams  the  white  of  the 
snow-capped  crests.  But  when  the  sun  is  clouded  and 
the  scene  bereft  of  its  magic  tints,  the  country  stands 
out  in  its  nakedness,  cold  and  barren;  no  yellow  or 
green  or  soft  brown,  but  leaden  valleys,  white  ridges, 
and  gray  skies, — desolate. 

The  prospect  fills  us  with  a  sense  of  loneliness; 
we  miss  the  presence  of  living  things.  No  farm-house 
peeps  out  with  the  suggestiveness  of  its  barns  and 
meadow  green ;  no  ranch  with  its  corrals ;  no  grazing 
herd;  no  bird  even  soaring  to  tempt  the  soul  with 
envy  of  its  wings — lifeless  is  written  everywhere. 

The  mind  shrinks  from  such  isolation;  it  is  im- 
mediately filled  with  its  instinct  of  self-projection. 
Whether  born  of  his  conceit  or  his  divinity,  man 
judges  all  things  unfinished  and  in  a  measure  pur- 
poseless of  which  he  is  not  a  part.  Yet  here  is  a  re- 
gion in  which  his  claims  seem  ignored  and  he  himself 
forgotten.  But  the  contradiction  is  in  appearance  only ; 
for  close  against  her  wealth-veined  breast  provident 
Mother  Earth  holds  the  same  hand  which  elsewhere  she 
extends  in  invitation.  She  has  hedged  herself  about 
with  all  that  is  forbidding  because  of  the  mighty  treas- 
ury to  be  protected,  but  she  is  loyal  still  and  ready  to 
give  to  every  daring  son  who  shall  prove  her  scroll 


COLUSA.  15 

upon  the  rocks.  Some  time  (and  it  needs  no  prophet 
to  tell  it  shall  be  soon),  the  form  of  man  will  be  no 
stranger  to  those  mountains;  but  as  yet  they  know 
neither  him  nor  his  belongings. 

We  crave  the  animate  more  when  the  universal 
silence  bears  down  upon  us.  We  own  to  a  sort  of 
awe :  the  quiet  is  so  profound.  And  yet  it  is  not  that 
crystallized  silence  that  speaks  of  force,  nor  is  it  the 
lethargy  of  sleep,  it  is  rather  the  hush  of  intense 
thought,  in  which  unseen  faculties  are  moving  in 
strong  activity.  Time  was  when  the  activity  revealed 
itself,  when  the  masses  were  shaken,  their  deep  foun- 
dations rent,  and  fiery  fountains  tossed  into  the  granite 
clefts  their  metalled  spray  to  be  a  nation's  heritage. 
And  dormant  forces  still  awake  and  sweep  the  surface, 
the  elements  are  roused  into  strife,  the  thunder  peals 
and  the  lightnings  leap  from  cloud  to  peak  and  flash 
across  the  heavens  in  strokes  that  are  keen  and  blind- 
ing. The  blizzard,  too,  with  its  frozen  breath,  rushes 
down,  shaking  out  the  fury  of  its  blasts;  but  the 
warm  Chinook  comes  in  from  the  western  sea,  and 
the  giant's  anger  melts  beneath  her  touch.  Quiet  is 
restored,  and  it  seems  but  the  deeper  for  the  momen- 
tary commotion. 

But,  though  the  absence  of  life  and  the  silence  op- 
press us  and  desolation  lies  like  a  pall  on  all  the  fea- 
tures of  the  landscape,  the  country  is  none  the  less 


16  A   BLIND  LEAD, 

noble  and  sublime.  The  massiveness  of  the  broken 
cliffs ;  the  mystery  that  lurks  in  the  rifts  and  seams 
and  scars ;  the  power  that  speaks  from  the  vast  ledges 
bent  and  twisted  as  by  the  grasp  of  some  mighty 
hand ; — these  are  but  a  part  of  its  grandeur.  All  is 
huge  and  imposing.  We  feel  that  in  a  glow  of  aspi- 
ration Nature  modelled  these  statued  piles.  Not  in 
the  sensuous  mood  in  which  she  painted  the  southern 
skies,  the  joyousness  in  which  she  called  up  the  bird- 
haunted  woods,  or  the  cruelty  in  which  she  flung  off 
the  desert, — she  wrought  here  pure,  lofty,  dispas- 
sionate. 

We  cannot  but  wonder  at  the  hardihood  of  the 
pioneers  who  forced  their  way  up  into  these  solitudes 
to  wrest  from  the.  sullen  hills  their  potent  prize.  The 
majesty  had  no  awe  for  them,  the  barrenness  no  terrors. 
They  came,  poor  men,  whose  all  of  earthly  goods  was 
strapped  across  the  backs  of  hardy  little  bronchos; 
brave  souls  and  fighters  born, — men,  who  came  with  a 
pick,  a  shovel,  and  a  loaded  rifle  on  their  shoulders, 
who  feared  neither  man  nor  beast,  but  faced  what  was 
more  terrible  than  either  the  rigors  of  winter  and  the 
dangers  of  starvation  among  the  unknown  mountains. 

Their  search  had  been  successful,  and  now  the  camp 
of  Colasa  was  one  of  the  liveliest  and  most  promising 
in  the  West. 

A   mining-camp  is  like  no  other  place  on  earth; 


COLUSA,  17 

there  is  a  fascination  about  it  that  is  inexplicable,  a 
spirit  of  enthusiasm  that  is  contagious.  Every  man 
seems  to  carry  in  his  face  a  hope  anchored  to  the 
possibilities  of  the  day.  Reverses  or  present  distress 
affect  him  little,  for  his  is  but  the  condition  of  pretty 
much  all  the  people  around  him  ;  he  bears  with  equa- 
nimity, with  a  sort  of  dogged  cheerfulness  even, — to- 
morrow may  be  the  day  of  fortune,  and  what  a  liberal 
fortune  if  luck  is  at  all  with  him ! 

The  things  of  life  impress  men  too  as  strong  realities ; 
the  "  may  be"  becomes  nakedly  the  is  or  is  not,  and  the 
'^  is"  or  "  is  not"  means  all  to  them.  Existence  is  not 
linked  to  the  affairs  of  men  with  the  constant  change 
and  the  chance  for  influence ;  it  is  bound  to  a  condi- 
tion long  since  determined  and  determined  irrevocably. 
It  almost  seems  with  many  as  though  At§,  the  partial 
and  unrelenting,  had  arisen  from  the  buried  hearths  of 
Atreus  and  of  QEdipus  and  claimed  them  for  her  prey, 
so  little  are  they  subjects  of  their  own  power,  so  much 
at  the  mercy  of  a  pitiless  unknown. 

In  Colusa  are  congregated  men  of  all  nations,  classes, 
trades,  and  characters.  The  laborer  and  the  banker,  the 
lawyer,  the  gambler,  and  the  tramp  pass  and  nod  a 
recognition.  All  are  in  a  sense  adventurers ;  all  are  one 
in  the  common  possession  of  a  spirit  which  dares  and 
which  endures,  and  one  in  the  ministry  of  fate  which 
makes  the  laborer  of  to-day  the  capitalist  of  to-morrow, 
b  2* 


18  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

anci  the  millionaire  of  one  hour  the  pauper  of  the  next. 
And  the  heterooreneous  mixture  of  men  is  reflected  in 
the  array  of  shops.  No  section  of  street  is  devoted  to 
special  business,  but  everything  is  wedged  in  promis- 
cuously,— pawn-shops,  faro-banks,  dry-goods  stores, 
jewelry-houses,  and  low  saloons  are  jumbled  together 
and  thrive  in  mutual  tolerance.  Here  a  group  of  men 
is  congregated  about  the  steps  of  some  pretentious 
hotel,  and  right  at  hand  a  variety  theatre  proclaims 
the  latest  questionable  play.  But  first  and  last  and 
everywhere  in  unchallenged  supremacy  is  the  saloon, 
and  in  the  saloon  always  the  gamblers  holding  open 
court. 

At  the  end  of  the  business  street  huddle  the  shanties 
of  the  Chinese  quarter ;  the  wash-house,  the  gambling- 
room,  the  shop,  and  the  joss-house  reflect  the  life  of 
the  Celestial  population.  Through  the  dirty  windows 
we  can  see  them  swarming  in  their  crowded  dens  and 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  bunks  one  above  another. 
Passing  the  closed  doors  (for  ventilation  is  an  abhor- 
rence), we  hear  the  monotonous  scraping  of  the  fiddle 
and  catch  a  breath  of  the  noxious  emanations  and  a 
stifling  odor  of  opium.  Though  denied  the  privileges 
of  mining,  the  coolies  insinuate  themselves  along  all 
the  other  avenues  of  profit  and  share  in  the  general 
prosperity.  They  are  execrated  by  the  people  and 
the  press ;  they  are  the  sport  and  prey  of  hoodlum 


COLUSA,  19 

and  of  gamin;  they  are  the  victims  of  popular  up- 
risings; but  patiently  they  keep  on  their  industrious 
way,  and  thrive  in  spite  of  persecution. 

Colusa,  though  embracing  thus  men  of  all  races  and 
counting  among  its  citizens  often  the  criminal  and  the 
outlaw,  is  still  not  to  be  supposed  a  lawless  town.  If 
for  a  season  the  unprincipled  element  bursts  its  bounds 
or  undertakes  to  run  riot,  the  curb  is  near  at  hand. 
Quietly  from  mouth  to  mouth  3 — 7 — 77,  the  mystic 
number  of  the  vigilantes,  passes,  and  soon  in  the  hush  of 
midnight  the  guilty  transgressors  pay  to  law  and  order 
the  tribute  of  their  lives.  Justice  may  be  long-suffer- 
ing and  be  for  a  time  deferred,  but  when  it  comes  it  is 
swift,  silent,  and  complete. 

The  respectable  members  of  the  community  even 
are  largely  homeless  waifs  of  fortune,  who,  after  work 
is  over,  have  no  place  inviting  them  but  the  saloon, 
none  soliciting  their  presence  but  the  brothel.  The 
street  is  their  rendezvous.  If  in  this  open  sea  of 
temptation  we  find  true  men,  men  who  hold  their 
manhood  a  thing  too  sacred  to  be  sullied,  shall  we 
not  own  that  the  world  still  harbors  the  ideal  ?  And 
many  such,  exiles  of  circumstance,  are  here  redeeming 
the  camp  by  their  virtue  and  their  honor. 

Back  from  the  public  street  are  the.  homes,  the 
schools  and  churches,  where  all  is  as  quiet  and 
orderly  as  a  New  England  village.     In  these  homes. 


20  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

removed  from  the  strife,  women  and  children  lead  the 
same  helpful,  holy  lives  that  are  lived  in  homes  the 
world  over.  About  this  section,  as  indeed  about  the 
whole  camp,  there  is  an  air  of  transitoriness  that  grows 
out  of  its  very  nature.  The  thousand  little  conveni- 
ences that  modern  civilization  has  made  necessaries 
are  unknown,  for  the  people  expect  to  be  birds  of 
passage,  and  are  ready  to  spread  their  wings  in  flight 
upon  the  first  evidence  of  decline. 

The  houses  stretch  all  along  the  side  of  the  hill 
and  down  nearly  to  the  little  creek  that  winds,  one 
could  not  say  flows,  in  front  of  the  town.  The  early 
placer-workings  have  left  the  bed  of  the  valley  seamed 
and  torn,  and  piles  of  smooth  stones  lie  about  washed 
of  the  soil  that  imbedded  them,  which  has  been  swept 
into  the  stream,  that  now  creeps  sluggishly  amid  its 
sandy  bars.  From  the  chlorodizing  mills  too,  with  the 
dark  tailings,  has  been  carried  a  solution  of  salt  which 
has  left  its  deposit,  a  grayish  film,  along  the  banks. 
Westward  with  even  swelling  slope  looms  a  huge 
porphyry  butte,  a  figure  solitary  and  commanding. 
Away  in  the  past  ages  some  restless  force  at  work  in 
the  earth's  interior  had  rent  the  ancient  hill-side  and 
heaved  the  molten  lava  high  into  the  outer  world. 
It  had  cooled  a  solid  cone,  and  stands  now  a  mass  dif- 
ferent from  the  country  rock  around,  an  alien  in  birth 
and  an  alien  in  nature. 


COLUSA,  21 

Beyond  the  creek,  on  the  farther  rise  of  the  valley, 
lies  the  cemetery.  The  graves  are  simple,  marked  gen- 
erally by  plain  wooden  headboards,  though  occasion- 
ally a  coarse  granite  slab  rises  stiff  and  cold  like  the 
bleak  region  around  it.  No  shading  trees,  no  living 
flowers,  are  here,  such  as  man  longs  to  see  blooming 
where  rest  the  forms  beloved,  for  the  fatal  smelter- 
smoke,  like  the  breath  of  a  pestilence,  passes  over, 
and  every  blossom  withers  in  its  blight. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  EUCHEB. 

Elizabeth  was  one  of  those  rare  persons  who, 
though  chained  by  circumstances  to  the  petty  details 
of  domestic  labor,  never  allowed  such  duties  to  become 
her  tyrants.  She  did  not  sacrifice  on  the  altar  of  an 
arbitrary  propriety  the  higher  needs  of  home-life. 
She  carried  out  the  dishes,  piled  them  up  in  the 
kitchen,  covered  and  left  them  until  morning.  In  a 
few  minutes  she  was  seated  beside  her  husband,  free  to 
devote  her  evening  to  him  and  the  children. 

She  relieved  him  of  the  baby.  The  little  girl  had 
thrown  herself  upon  the  ground  beside  her  father, 
leaning  her  head  against  his  knee,  and  his  rough 
brown  hand  was  resting  down  upon  her  curls.  They 
formed  unconsciously  a  group  that  told  of  sweet  do- 
mestic peace  and  love ;  a  sight  pleasant  to  look  upon 
amid  the  bareness  of  their  surroundings. 

"Why  d'  ye  feel  so  sure  thet  vein's  through  the 
Eucher,  John  ?"  Elizabeth  began,  her  mind  still  turn- 
ing to  the  theme  of  such  moment  in  their  lives. 

"  It  can't  run  nowhar's  else  es  I  can  see,"  he  an- 
swered. 
22 


THE  EUCHER.  23 

"  Ye  kDOW,"  she  remonstrated,  gently,  "  ye  thought 
ye'd  a  good  lead  in  the  Lidy  an'  the  None  Sech,  an' 
ye  was  cert'n  uv  the  Grit/' 

"  Yes,  yes,  so  I  war.  When  I  think  uv  'em  all,  I 
feel  some  put  out.  Mebbe  it  ain't  so  right,  me  stick'n' 
ter  this  'ere,  arter  all.  Thar's  no  knowin'  anythin' 
'bout  a  mine  nohow.  The  Peerless, — tuk  half  a  mil- 
lion outer  her,  an'  my  two  claims  's  right  joinin'.  I've 
thought  it  out  months  an'  months,  an'  I  don't  see,  fer 
the  life  o'  me,  how  thet  vein  can  be  any  whar  but  in  my 
Eucher." 

"Yet  one  uv  yer  own  sayin's  is  thet  'extensions 
most  never  extend.' " 

"  No  more  they  don't  gin'rally." 

"  But  the  vein  ye're  on  broad'ns  out  ye  say  ?" 

"  Yes,  gittin'  wider  right  'long  es  we  go  down.  Ef 
I  didn't  feeh  so  cert'n  I  wouldn't  hev  thro  wed  up  my 
job.  Ye  see  when  I  hadn't  'nough  t'  pay  a  hand  t'r 
sink  an'  run  the  house  too,  an'  Magee,  he  couldn't  sink 
alone,  I'd  got  ter  throw  up  the  job  or  shet  down  th' 
mine.  I'd  like  t'  try  a  bit  longer,  but  ef  ye're  re- 
pentin'  uv  yer  consent  I'll  quit,  fer  nothin'  never  went 
right  with  me  ef  you  war  agin  it." 

"No,  John,  no,"  she  answered,  assuringly,  "I'm 
not  agin  it.  Ye'd  never  be  content  now  out  o'  thet 
'ere  hole  in  th'  ground,  an'  I'm  not  agin  it,  man,  I'm 
not  agin  it." 


24  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

"  Mebbe  it  riles  ye  that  I'm  shoulderin'  a  pick  an' 
diggin'  like  tli'  commonest/'  he  observed,  with  sudden 
suspicion.     "  Mebbe  ye'd  like  I'd  go  back  ter  bossin'." 

A  secret  sensitiveness  in  his  own  mind  made  him 
somewhat  morbid  to  his  late  descent,  for  his  face  flushed 
and  he  looked  at  his  wife  with  an  unwonted  sharpness. 

"  Ye're  no  wus  to-day  diggin'  then  ye  was  last  week 
bossin'  es  I  can  see,"  she  answered  in  a  curt  disdain. 
"  Ef  ye  strike  it  no  one's  goin'  t'  ask  ye  how  ye  got 
thar." 

Her  philosophy  silenced  his  doubt. 

"  Thet's  the  truth,  Liz'bith.  It's  the  succeedin'  thet 
counts.  Wal,  I'm  unly  wantin'  this  one  show,  an'  ef 
I  fail  ag'in,  I'm  satisfied  t'  gev  up  try  in'." 

A  look  of  perplexity  crossed  his  wife's  face  a 
moment  and  a  hint  of  her  misgiving  crept  into  her 
words. 

"  It'll  be  kind  uv  tight  pullin'." 

Then  she  feared  that  she  might  seem  to  be  inter- 
posing obstacles,  and  added,  in  quick  encouragement, — 

"  No  matter  though,  ye'll  be  takin'  out  some  right 
'long  like  enough,  an'  I'll  go  es  sparin'  es  I  can  so  we 
won't  hev  t'  draw  on  th'  little  we've  got  set  away." 

"  No,  we'll  never  tech  thet  whatever  comes,"  with 
the  posit! veness  of  one  who  settles  a  fact  irrevocably. 
"  Thet's  fer  you  an'  the  childer  agin  a  rainy  day." 

"  Thar's  ways  opens  up  sometimes  thet  folks  can't 


THE  EUCHER.  25 

know  about  aforehand,  an'  I  sometimes  feel "     She 

hesitated,  as  though  her  position  might  not  be  alto- 
gether tenable.  "I  sometimes  feel  when  yeVe  done 
yer  best,  yeVe  a  right  to  'spect  things  '11  happen  'long 
ter  help  ye  out." 

The  miner  shook  his  head  incredulously. 

"Thar  won't  nothin'  happen  'long,  nor  we  won't 
need  nothin'.  We'll  be  gittin'  out  more'n  more  es  we 
git  down  in  th'  shaft,  an'  any  minute  we're  likely  t' 
strike  rich  ore ;  thet's  how  it  war  in  th'  Peerless. 
Lots  uv  ther  ore  went  nine  hundred  ounces  on  the 
hundred  foot  level,  an'  thet's  our  shute  sure." 

He  glanced  along  the  trail  he  travelled  daily  to  and 
from  the  mine,  over  the  swelling  ridge,  and  his  brow 
contracted  in  that  keen  outreaching  of  sight  that  would 
pierce  the  very  earth  and  trace  the  secret  artery.  He 
saw  it  a  frozen  stream  of  silver  imprisoned  deep  under 
the  weight  of  rocks.  There  it  was  in  its  natural 
course  straight  across  his  claim  and  branching  into 
the  narrower  veins  that  lay  below.  It  was  all  clear 
to  him,  for  he  saw  with  the  double  force  of  reason 
and  a  miner's  intuition.  Alas!  his  wife  had  only  her 
unaided  sight. 

"Ef  it  should  anyways  chance  it  wasn't,  John?" 
she  asked,  apologetically. 

Her  doubt  jarred  upon  the  sensitive  faith  of  her 
husband.  He  felt  dimly  what  we  all  feel  at  times, 
B  8 


26  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

the  difficulty  of  expressing  or  explaining  our  intui- 
tions, so  he  answered  only  in  the  evidence  of  his 
reason. 

"Thar  ain't  but  three  claims  it  could  be  in,"  he 
said,  with  a  shade  of  irritation.  "  Them's  th'  Eucher, 
th'  Elm  Orlu,  an'  the  Daisy.  Th'  Eucher  's  mine 
an'  Magee's;  th'  Elm  Orlu  's  mine;  an'  the  Daisy 
's  old  man  Brown's.  Now  this  lead  ud  hev  to  turn 
off,  so,  to  git  inter  th'  Elm  Orlu,  but  I  do  think  the 
Chieftain  vein  's  in  thar, — thet's  why  I  tuk  it  up. 
The  Daisy  's  too  fur  to  the  left;  besides,  they  sunk  a 
shaft  sixty  feet  an'  didn't  strike  nothin'.  So  thar's  no 
place  fur  it  to  be  but  in  th'  Eucher." 

"It  would  seem  so,  wouldn't  it?"  said  Elizabeth. 

"  The  vein  makes  out  below  in  the  Gopher,  an'  how 
in  thunder  could  it  git  down  the  hill  'thout  it  went 
through  th'  Eucher?"  He  turned  to  her  with  the 
challenge  of  his  question,  but  she  made  no  attempt  to 
reply.  As  well  have  asked  her  how  the  stars  had  got 
into  the  sky  as  how  that  vein  had  got  down  the  hill. 
How  indeed  without,  as  he  said,  it  went  through  the 
Eucher?  The  unanswerableness  of  his  argument  was 
its  confirmation,  and  the  miner  was  placated. 

"Quite  likely  ye're  right,  John,"  Elizabeth  said, 
speaking  out  of  the  depth  of  mystery  she  was  power- 
less to  penetrate.  "  Men's  s'posed  to  know  ther  own 
work  better'n  women  can  know  it  fer  'em,  an'  I've 


THE  EUCHER.  27 

got  all  the  figurin^  out  I  can  do  on  patchin'  clothes 
an' " 

"An'  tallyin'  off  my  chances  fer  salvation?"  he 
broke  in,  laughing. 

"  Yes,"  she  assented.  Not  that  Elizabeth  considered 
her  husband  a  godless  man,  but,  like  so  many  other 
good  souls,  she  was  forever  distracted  between  the  im- 
possibility of  making  him  conform  to  her  method  of 
thought  and  the  fear  of  leaving  him  to  the  freedom  of 
his  own. 

"  Never  mind,  wife," — he  glanced  at  her  with  a  sly 
smile, — "  I  jest  tie  t'  your  faith." 

"I  find  thet's  most  gin'rally  the  way  uv  men," 
tartly.  "  They  got  no  religion  theirselves  t^  boast  on, 
an'  they  don't  go  much  on  it  nohow, — 'it's  a  kind  uv 
sweet  syrup  fer  women  an'  babies.  But  when  troubles 
comes  an'  they're  in  a  tight  box,  I  never  see  th'  man 
yet  what  didn't  drop  right  down  onter  his  wife's 
r'ligion  an'  grip  it  with  his  eyes  shet  an'  hold  on  like 
iron." 

The  miner  laughed. " 

"Yes,  an'  it's  mighty  weak  an'  sneakin',  John 
Howard,"  she  continued.  "  If  ye  want  strength  why 
don't  ye  git  it  fust  hand  ?" 

"  Wal,  I'm  feelin'  pretty  strong  mysel'  to-night,"  he 
answered,  pleasantly ;  "  but  what  a  good  little  preacher 
ye  be,  'Liz'beth !" 


28  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  and  drew  her  down  with 
teasing  familiarity. 

"  I  tell  ye  what,"  he  said,  patronizingly,  "  I  struck  a 
rich  lead  when  I  struck  you, — pay  from  tli'  very  grass- 
roots,— an'  ef  ye  be  occas'nally  given  ter  droppin'  down 
onter  me  fer  dis'pline,  why,  I  need  it  I  s'pose, — it's 
wholesome  an'  ye  mean  well." 

She  held  up  her  finger  as  a  truce  to  his  teasing,  and 
a  movement  of  the  baby  attracted  her  attention. 

"  Do  look  at  them  childern,"  she  exclaimed.  "  Both 
sound  asleep.     We  must  take  'em  in :  it's  gettin'  late." 

"  Pretty  innocen's,"  he  said,  stooping  and  brushing 
the  soft  curls  back  from  the  little  girl's  forehead. 
Then,  straightening  up  and  leaning  back  against  the 
door-post,  "  I  wish  t'  other  war  here  too.  It  never 
seems  right  t'  hev  Ada  'way  from  us." 

"  They  couldn't  gev  her  up  down  thar,"  Elizabeth 
answered,  quickly.  "  I've  hinted  it  onct  or  twice,  but 
mother,  she's  es  ef  t'  hev  a  spell  uv  cry  in',  an'  Sarah, 
she  clings  to  the  child.  Ada's  the  life  uv  the  house,  an' 
they  all  pet  her  an'  love  her." 

"Yes,  but  we  love  her  too,  an'  she'd  orter  luk  t' 
us  fust  for  love.  I've  never  saw  th'  right  uv  leavin' 
lier  all  this  time,  tho'  I'd  bid  ye  hev  yer  way  'bout  it. 
The  woman  hes  th'  trouble  uv  young  uns,  an'  tliey 
got  the  fust  say  o'  what'U  be  done." 

"  Besides,  John,"  his  wife   hastened  to  add,  "  we 


THE  EUCHER.  29 

couldn't  do  fer  her  like  theyVe  a-doin'.  She  couldn't 
git  to  go  to  school  'way  up  here." 

"  No,  yc're  right  thar ;  we  couldn't  yet." 

"  An'  she'd  hev  unly  these  common  childern  'round 
'bout  t'  })lay  with,  while  among  the  folks  she's  growin' 
up  a  lady." 

"Ay,  an'  a  precious  han'some  one,"  he  answered, 
proudly.  "  Last  Sun'ay  when  she  come  up  here  wi' 
that  white  frock  an'  th'  blue  ribbon  on  her  ha'r,  her 
eyes  so  bright  an'  her  fat  little  arms,  I'll  be  shot  ef 
I  ever  see  a  child  any  prettier." 

"She's  fifteen  now,  Ada  is,"  said  the  mother, 
thoughtfully. 

"Wal  ef  she  ain't!  How  th'  time  does  git  'way 
from  a  man,  don't  it  ?" 

."  Ada's  goin'  ter  make  an  oncommon  fine  girl.  I'd 
be  glad  fer  her  sake  the  mine  'ud  turn  out  well ;  but 
come,  come,  we  must  git  in." 

"  Wouldn't  she  hev  the  frocks  then  tho' !"  he  went 
on.  "  An'  rings  an'  necklaces  an'  be  a  lady  out'n  out. 
She'll  hev  'era,  all,  fer  her  father  '11  strike  ev'ry  blow 
home  fer  his  babies.  She'll  hev  'em ;  an'  so  '11  papa's 
darlin'  little  Kosie." 

Lifting  the  sleeping  child,  he  nestled  her  head  close 
in  against  his  neck  and  carried  her  into  the  house, 
murmuring  softly,  "  Papa's  little  Rosie !     Papa's  little 

Rosie !" 

8* 


CHAPTER   lY. 


THE  WAYBURNS. 


"  EcCENTKic,  a  harmless  old  codger!"  that  was  men's 
summary  of  him, — as  if  "eccentric"  and  "harmless" 
ever  could  apply  to  the  same  person. 

A  man's  eccentricities  are,  to  the  world,  little  weak- 
nesses to  be  indulged  and  laughed  at,  but  to  those  of 
his  household,  alas!  alas! 

James  Wayburn's  eccentricity  was  perhaps  as  inno- 
cent as  such  things  ever  are.  Certainly  by  his  little 
world  outside  it  was  humored  and  enjoyed  immoder- 
ately, and  if  his  family  suffered  sometimes, — that  was 
but  an  incident. 

"  I  believe  I'm  going  to  have  another  of  my  spells," 
said  the  old  man,  extending  himself  upon  the  sofa, — 
"  one  of  my  bad  spells." 

His  wife  looked  up  sharply  but  said  nothing. 

Soon  he  remarked  again, — 

"Yes,  I  do  believe  I'm  going  to  be  sick  sure." 
And,  drawing  out  his  red  bandana  handkerchief,  he 
proceeded  to  wrap  it  tightly  about  his  head. 

"  James  Wayburn,"  said  his  wife,  rising  slowly  and 
80 


THE   WAYBURNS.  31 

looking  straiglit  into  his  eye, — "  James  Wayburn,  have 
you  been  down  to  that  auction  again  ?'' 

"  Auction !"  he  repeated  in  a  surprised  tone,  as  if  the 
word  itself  was  new  to  him.  "  Auction !  Well,  I  did 
drop  into  Kogers's  to  kind  of  look  up  that  set  you  said 
you  wanted  for  Ellen.  I  stopped  in  at  Sutton's,  but 
they  was  all  so  dear  I  about  gave  up  looking  till  I 
happened  into  Rogers's." 

A  low  sigh  was  the  woman's  only  comment.  She 
seated  herself  again  and  took  up  her  knitting.  Pres- 
ently it  dropped  from  her  hands  into  her  lap  and  lay 
there  unheeded.  She  was  thinking.  Her  thoughts 
could  not  have  been  altogether  pleasant,  for  she  held 
her  lips  tight-shut,  as  though  fearful  that  some  word 
might  escape.  Occasionally  her  eyes  wandered  to  the 
figure  on  the  sofa,  and  she  moved  as  if  to  address 
him ;  but  she  restrained  herself,  and  gradually  her  re- 
flections seemed  to  grow  less  personal,  for  she  sat  lost 
in  revery. 

The  old  man  had  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  and 
soon  his  regular  breathing  told  that  he  slept.  Re- 
called to  herself,  the  woman  looked  down  upon  the 
sleeper,  and  as  she  did,  the  lines  in  her  face  softened 
and  a  shade  of  pity  crept  in  instead.  She  arose,  and 
bringing  a  light  coverlet,  spread  it  over  him. 

Then  she  returned  to  her  knitting,  but  though  the 
needles  flew  and  the  deft  fingers  guided  the  slipping 


32  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

yarn,  the  mind  was  not  idle.  Every  little  while  she 
paused  to  glance  out  at  the  open  window,  and  her  lips 
murmured  faintly,  "  Poor  Ellen/' 

The  home  of  the  Wayburns  was  a  long  weather- 
stained  house,  that  looked  out  upon  butte  and  creek 
and  solid  mountain  masses.  It  was  set  in  the  middle 
of  an  enclosure,  a  sterile  patch  of  about  half  an  acre. 
Noting  the  waste  of  slopes  beyond,  one  felt  that  a 
square  mile  might  have  been  appropriated  and  no  land 
missed,  for  there  was  certainly  a  sufiSciency  of  build- 
ing room  in  the  country. 

Close  at  hand  an  abandoned  mine,  with  its  dis- 
mantled shaft-house,  told  of  blighted  hopes  and  use- 
less labor.  The  whim  still  stood  within  the  beaten 
circle,  where  reluctantly  an  old  gray  horse  had  toiled 
with  the  heavy  bucket.  Now,  two  ragged  children 
were  straddling  the  pole,  while  a  third,  with  much 
panting  and  puffing,  was  dragging  them  slowly  around. 
A  long  pile  of  wood  remained  to  suggest  the  expecta- 
tion of  the  miners,  and  a  small  dump  of  neglected  ore 
betrayed  what  they  had  realized. 

The  original  house,  like  all  those  of  early  days,  was 
of  logs.  In  front  of  this  had  been  built  as  the  town 
grew  and  the  railroad  came,  cheapening  the  price  of 
lumber,  a  frame  structure  after  a  more  modern  pat- 
tern. 

The  house  was  devoid  of  porch  or  piazza,  the  front 


THE    WAYS  URNS.  33 

door  opening  directly  into  the  sitting-room.  Nothing 
superfluous  was  to  be  tolerated,  nothing  that  could  be 
dispensed  with  added,  so  no  space  was  devoted  to  the 
etiquette  of  halls.  The  windows  were  small,  and  the 
door  innocent  of  anything  more  pretentious  than  a 
latch,  while  the  walls  had  been  clothed  and  were 
papered  with  a  pretty  design  which,  though  cheap, 
gave  a  pleasing  effect.  The  furniture  was  mostly  of 
home  manufacture,  and  some  of  the  articles  displayed 
a  taste  and  an  ingenuity  much  out  of  the  common ; 
soft  lounges,  inviting  chairs,  curious  foot-rests,  and 
pretty  hangings,  made  the  little  home  a  place  of 
comfort  and  unexpected  beauty. 

Here  and  there,  however,  scattered  throughout  the 
house,  one  came  upon  some  odd  piece,  a  chair,  a  pic- 
ture, or  a  rug,  evidently  bought  and  always  faded,  and 
so  inharmonious  that  the  wonder  was  how  the  taste 
and  genius  that  devised  the  one  could  be  guilty  of 
tolerating  the  other.  There  was  an  evil  sprite  some- 
where, a  spirit  that  marred  the  simple  harmony. 

Here  in  the  quiet  of  the  suburb  dwelt  the  family  of 
James  Wayburn, — "  Old  Wayburn"  he  was  popularly 
called,  though  he  counted  only  fifty-six  and  was  hale 
enough  to  last  twenty  good  years  longer.  He  had 
come  to  Colusa  twelve  years  before,  and  had  been  in- 
fluenced into  coming  partly  by  the  fact  that  his  life- 
long friend  and  neighbor,  David  Hall,  had  decided 


34  A  BLIND  LEAD, 

upon  the  move,  and  partly  by  a  weakness  of  his 
nature,  which  was  the  determining  motive  in  every 
choice.  James  Wayburn  was  possessed  of  the  demon 
of  tradinsr.  There  was  nothing  he  owned  that  he 
would  not  trade ;  nothing  that  any  other  man  owned 
that  he  would  not  trade  for.  It  was  a  mania  with 
him,  an  idea  whose  presence  dwarfed  every  other  con- 
sideration. It  shaped  his  plans,  warped  his  thought, 
and  overruled  all  his  better  purposes.  Distance,  time, 
trouble, — nothing  counted ;  a  present  or  prospective 
trade  was  the  leaven  of  his  life. 

The  bustling,  active  city  that  had  grown  up  around 
Lis  former  home  was  fast  crowding  out  all  chance  for 
the  exercise  of  his  hobby, — city  methods  do  not  admit 
much  of  barter.  He  was  willing  enough,  therefore,  to 
accompany  David  Hall  to  a  new  town,  cut  off  from 
all  the  world,  which  offered  such  a  hopeful  field  for 
conquest. 

In  Colusa  he  had  opened  a  small  book-store,  with 
stationery,  magazines,  and  papers  of  the  day.  He  suc- 
ceeded with  his  business  reasonably  well.  He  would 
have  succeeded  better  but  that  James  Wayburn  was 
himself  his  own  best  customer.  Through  the  long 
days  he  sat  placidly  reading  the  books  of  his  little 
stock,  and  he  added  to  them  in  purchasing  such  only 
as  commended  themselves  to  his  own  individual  need. 
As  this  ran  largely  into  the  sphere  of  the  romantic, 


THE   WAYBURNS.  35 

and  he  was  not  very  particular  about  theme  or  treat- 
ment, he  managed  to  accommodate  the  popular  taste 
by  accident  fairly  well. 

The  profits  of  his  business  went  always  into  satisfy- 
ing the  hunger  of  his  "  Daimon  ;''  into  buying  some- 
thing that  promised  the  solace  of  a  trade.  As,  however, 
some  one  was  ever  ready  to  saddle  upon  him  what  no 
other  C9uld  be  seduced  into  buying,  he  was  generally 
fain  to  keep  his  bargains  and  denied  his  well-earned 
pleasure.  But  this  never  discouraged  him.  He 
waited,  collected  a  little  more  money,  and  ventured 
again.  Endless  had  been  the  complications  to  which 
his  foible  had  given  rise, — the  domestic  scenes,  the 
mortifications,  the  reproaches, — and  endless  also  the 
promises  and  endeavors  at  reform.  Alas !  James  Way- 
burn's  eccentricity  would  go  with  him  to  the  end. 

His  family  with  each  year  had  been  sinking  deeper 
into  need.  The  mother's  health  failed  at  last,  and  the 
oldest  daughter  in  the  home,  then  a  girl  just  budding 
into  womanhood,  came  forward  to  relieve  their  wants. 
The  father  realizing  now  anew  the  mischief  his  folly 
had  wrought,  and  the  misfortunes  it  brought  to  those 
he  loved,  vowed  with  honest  tears  to  repair  the  past 
in  the  devotion  of  the  future.  But  the  years  had 
come  and  gone  again,  and  still  at  her  post  stood 
Ellen  Wayburn,  the  stay  and  support  of  the  house- 
hold. 


CHAPTEE   V. 

ELLEN. 

As  Mrs.  Wayburn  sat  beside  her  husband,  knitting 
and  reflecting,  her  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  the 
opening  of  the  door  and  the  entrance  of  a  girl  appar- 
ently about  twenty-five. 

There  was  nothing  noticeably  handsome  about  her ; 
she  was  tall,  with  brown  hair,  which  waved  gently,  and 
was  drawn  back  from  a  face  clear  but  colorless.  Her 
figure  was  slight  but  well  proportioned.  In  the  sepa- 
rate features  it  could  not  be  claimed  that  she  was  at  all 
striking,  and  yet  one  was  impressed  with  a  something 
about  her,  individual,  unique,  superior.  It  shone  in 
every  line,  in  every  curve,  in  the  poise  of  the  head, 
the  expression  of  the  eyes,  and  the  shading  of  cheek 
into  chin;  it  was  reflected  in  the  light,  firm  step,  and 
in  the  voice  low  yet  so  distinct.  It  was  diffused  like 
a  gentle  magnetism,  or  like  the  subtle  essence  of  a 
flower, — a  something  to  feel  but  not  to  be  located  or 
defined. 

The  influence  puzzled  while  it  attracted,  for  the  clue 

was  evasive.     One  sought  it  vainly  upon  the  surface, 
86 


ELLEN.  37 

in  anything  of  shape  or  shade;  it  was  of  the  intan- 
gible which  sense  cannot  measure  or  discern.  But 
suddenly  a  word  or  a  chance  judgment  would  hint  the 
secret,  and  then,  once  found,  it  solved  the  mystery  so 
easily  and  so  naturally,  the  wonder  was  it  had  not  been 
divined  at  a  glance. 

The  girl  was  instinct  with  spirit-force.  Spirituality, 
that  was  the  power  which  moulded,  the  quality  dif- 
fused through  her  and  exhaled  unconsciously.  It 
shone  upon  her  brow,  in  the  clear,  honest  eye,  in  the 
firm  mouth,  and  moved  and  glowed  in  every  fibre  of 
her  being. 

As  the  girl  entered,  she  carried  in  her  hand  a  plain 
straw  hat  and  on  her  arm  a  pile  of  books,  both  of 
which  she  deposited  upon  the  table. 

"Dreaming?"  she  asked,  pleasantly,  drawing  near 
and  resting  her  hand  upon  her  mother's.  Then,  as 
she  caught  sight  of  the  sleeper,  "  Father  sick  ?  What 
is  the  matter  ?'' 

"Nothin'  the  matter,  dear,  nothin'  but  the  old 
trouble.  He's  been  down  to  the  auction  squand'rin' 
his  money  as  usual."  The  mother  paused ;  then  con- 
tinued :  "  Yer  school  dress,  youVe  got  to  manage  with- 
out it,  dear,  an'  that  chirtiney  bill  must  wait  again, — 
after  all  his  promisin',  too." 

"  Oh,  mother !  how  could  he  ?"  broke  from  the  girl's 


38  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

When  she  saw  the  disappointment  in  her  mother's 
face,  she  stroked  the  gray  hair  lovingly.  "I  don't, 
mind  the  dress  so  much.  My  '  genius  for  going  with- 
out/ as  you  call  it,  will  serve  me  again ;  but  that  bill, 
— it's  a  shame  and  a  wrong." 

"  How  much  did  he  spend  ?"  she  asked,  presently. 
"And  what  did  he  buy?" 

"  Some  trash  for  your  new  room,  I  guess.  I  didn't 
bother  to  find  out, — I  hadn't  the  patience  to.  It's 
the  same  old  story,  an'  I'm  tired  of  hearin'  it.  That 
sounds  like  wagon-wheels  now;  most  prob'ly  it's  them 
comin'."  And  she  rose  to  see  what  this  latest  acquisi- 
tion might  prove. 

At  that  moment  an  express-wagon  drove  into  the 
yard,  and  the  driver,  seeing  the  two  standing  in  the 
door-way,  saluted  in  military  fashion. 

"  Foin  day,  ladies,  foin  day.  Got  a  noice  new  parler 
sit  for  yez  this  toime,  shure." 

"Drive  around  to  the  barn  and  store  them  in  the 
loft,"  said  Ellen,  quietly. 

"Th'old  gintleman's  private 'part men t  ag'in?  I'm 
doubtin'  if  there'll  be  anny  more  room.  A  grand 
'sortment  he  have  got  up  there,  miss,  an'  no  mish- 
take.  He  have  a  ginuine  oi  fur  th'  antaque.  But 
he  got  this  lot  chape,  dirt  chape,"  he  added,  encour- 
agingly. 

"  How  much  did  he  pay?" 


ELLEN.  39 

"  Oh,  unly  thirty  dollars  th'  load,  au'  I  fotched  th' 
lot  up  fur  a  dollar  an'  a  half.  They're  worth  double 
the  money  anny  day, — th'  auctionair  sed  so,  an' 
plinty's  th'  chance  he's  hed  t'  ixamin'  'era.  They've 
bin  lyin'  this  two  months  waitin'  th'  old  gintleraan  'ud 
happ'n  'round.  He'll  have  a  swell  boudware  now,  he 
will,  this  bidstid  an'  thira  curtains  an'  foinery.  I'll 
stow  'em  careful'  in  th'  north  chamb'r."  And,  winking 
shrewdly,  he  took  up  the  lines  and  drove  on. 

As  they  turned  to  re-enter  the  house  the  click  of  the 
gate  attracted  their  attention,  and  a  moment  later  some 
one  came  up  the  walk  whistling  merrily. 

"That's  Jerold,"  observed  Ellen,  passing  within. 

As  she  spoke,  around  the  corner  of  the  house  came 
a  young  man  of  such  boyish  frame  and  face  one  would 
have  judged  him  scarcely  twenty,  though  a  closer  in- 
spection would  have  added  at  least  ten  years.  As  he 
stepped  buoyantly  along,  his  cheeks  fresh  and  the  light 
of  mirth  dancing  in  his  eyes,  one  felt  that  Jerold  Bray 
was  of  the  favored  few  who  assimilate  only  the  world's 
sunshine ;  a  creature  with  whom  care  and  anxiety  have 
nothing  in  common. 

"  How  do  you  do,  ma  ?"  he  called  out  cheerily,  ap- 
proaching the  door  she  held  open. 

He  entered  and  stood  familiarly  in  the  middle  of 
the  room.  Then,  seeing  Ellen,  he  crossed,  seated  him- 
self beside  her,  and  stole   his  arm   quietly  over  her 


40  A  BUND  LEAD. 

shoulder.  The  look  she  raised  to  his  was  so  full  of 
sweet  trust  he  seemed  touched,  for  he  stooped  and 
lightly  kissed  her  forehead. 

"Anything  new  at  the  Pierian  spring?"  he  asked, 
leaning  over  and  putting  his  hat  upon  the  table,  "  or  is 
this  the  season  when  the  classic  font  runs  dry?  I 
suppose,  though,  it's  superfluous  to  ask  you  for  news, 
you  carry  your  ethereal  mind  so  high  above  the  in- 
terests of  this  common  world.'' 

"Now  see  how  you  misjudge  me,''  she  answered, 
with  a  smile.  "I  have  been  only  waiting  till  you 
should  finish  your  remark  to  tell  you  the  latest  sur- 
prise. As  you  only  inquired  for  school  news,  how- 
ever, anything  else  may  be  irrelevant,"  she  observed, 
slyly. 

"  Nothing  is  irrelevant  that  is  news,  so  let  us  have 
it." 

"  Well,  Miss  Hudson,  or  ^  pretty  Catharine'  as  you 
gentlemen  have  taken  the  liberty  of  christening  her, 
is  engaged, — actually  engaged." 

•  "  Indeed  I  And  Archer  has  really  corralled  her  at 
last,  has  he?  Well,  she's  led  him  many  a  chase,  and 
if  he's  got  her  safely  he  deserves  congratulations.  I'll 
walk  around  to-night  and  offer  them." 

"  You  may  be  a  trifle  premature,"  said  Ellen  ;  "  she 
declines  telling  to  whom  she  is  engaged,  and  it  is  barely 
possible  you  might  be  congratulating  the  wrong  man. 


ELLEN.  41 

Her  engagement  was  divulged  by  accident,  and  she 
won't  discuss  it." 

"  A  mystery  !  a  mystery !"  said  Jerold.  "  I  must  set 
about  the  sohition  at  once.  When  one  lives  in  an  iso- 
lated mining-camp  he  must  at  least  be  permitted  to 
know  what  is  transpiring  about  him;  secrecy  is  an 
infringement  of  one's  neighbors'  most  sacred  rights,  for 
you  might  as  well  rob  a  man  of  his  money  as  of  his 
peace  of  mind,  and  who  can  have  peace  of  mind  with 
a  perplexing  mystery  in  his  midst?  I  shall  drop  in 
upon  Archer  now  without  fail  and  make  a  personal 
demand  for  information.  But  I  am  forgetting  my 
errand.  Sarah  !"  he  called,  rising  and  speaking  across 
the  dining-room  to  a  girl  busily  at  work  in  the 
kitchen.  "  Sarah  dear !  Sarah !  where  are  those 
famous  doughnuts?  Aren't  you  going  to  invite  me 
to  partake?" 

"If  you'll  stop  your  'dearin"  I  may  fetch  some 
in,  but  if  you  stand  there  badger  in'  me  you  may  go 
back  as  you  come,"  replied  the  girl,  in  a  voice  that  was 
sharp  and  incisive  but  not  unpleasant. 

Jerold  looked  at  her  with  a  spirit  of  mischief  play- 
ing visibly  in  his  handsome  eyes,  but  as  she  picked 
up  a  plate  and  disappeared  into  the  pantry  he  checked 
the  impulse,  and,  with  his  smile  of  habitual  good  na- 
ture, came  back  to  his  place  beside  Ellen. 

In  a  few  minutes,  with  a  brisk  step,  entered  Sarah, 
4* 


42  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

a  rosy-cheeked,  healthy  girl,  whose  flashing  black  eyes 
had  a  way  of  intimating  her  ideas  long  before  they 
had  shaped  themselves  upon  her  tongue.  She  carried 
a  plate  heaping  full  of  the  fresh,  temptiaig  cakes, 
which  she  set  upon  the  table.  "  There  they  are,"  she 
said.  Her  tone  was  shaded  to  a  welcome,  but  in  her 
eyes  lurked  a  certain  ungraciousness  that  could  not 
be  disguised.  It  was  clear  the  young  man  had  no  ad- 
mirer in  Sarah.  But  her  disfavor  did  not  seem  to 
disturb  him  much,  for  he  laughed  provokingly  as 
he  went  on  eating.  No  very  aggressive  mood  could 
be  maintained  in  the  face  of  such  persistent  good 
spirits;  before  many  minutes  Sarah  had  melted  to 
sociability  and  the  three  were  indulging  in  a  lively 
conversation. 

But  presently  Jerold  noticed  that  Mrs.  AVayburn  sat 
apart  in  silence,  oblivious  to  their  coterie,  and  with  his 
volatile  humor  he  turned  to  her. 

"  What,  ma  I  you  melancholy  ?  Have  a  doughnut, 
do ;  nothing  so  good  for  melancholy."  And  he  leaned 
over  to  pass  her  the  flaky  dainties. 

"  No,  dear ;  I  was  only  thinking,"  she  said,  waving 
them  away. 

"Don't  do  it,  rta,  don't.  It's  a  reflection  on  us. 
Besides,  to  reflect  when  there  are  doughnuts  in  full 
sight  must  be  a  reflection  on  the  doughnuts." 

"Oh,   you    incorrigible  I"   exclaimed   Ellen;   then 


ELLEN.  43 

added,  apologetically,  "  Mike  has  just  brought  a  load 
from  the  auction,  and  ma^s  a  little  troubled." 

"Auction  again?  Shades  of  Mercury!  here's  sport. 
Let's  out,  right  off,  and  see." 

Snatching  a  cake  in  each  hand,  without  waiting  for 
further  explanation,  he  jumped  up  and  hurried  un- 
ceremoniously into  the  yard. 


CHAPTER   VL 


THE  TROPHIES. 


Mike  had  got  the  wagon  as  far  as  the  barn-door 
and  dismounted  leisurely  to  decide  upon  what  he  would 
do  next.  With  the  curiosity  of  his  class  he  mounted 
to  the  "  apartment,"  to  learn  if  any  fresh  relics  had 
been  added  since  last  he  surveyed  the  collection.  He 
seemed  satisfied  that  there  had,  for  a  broad  grin  spread 
over  his  face  as  he  espied  an  article  at  one  side. 

He  walked  around,  tilted  it,  rubbed  it,  and  applied 
various  other  tests  to  assure  himself  of  its  identity, 
then  he  sat  down  and  burst  into  a  suppressed  fit  of 
chuckling,  slapping  his  leg  and  twisting  his  body  into 
the  most  ungainly  attitudes.  Evidently  the  associa- 
tions in  his  mind  were  somewhat  humorous. 

After  he  had  sufficiently  vented  his  mirth  and  taken 
a  close  view  of  the  other  late  deposits,  he  proceeded  to 
shove  aside  some  of  the  pieces  to  make  room  for  the 
load  below.  He  handled  them  with  a  recklessness 
that  would  have  wrung  James  Wayburn's  soul, — all 
but  the  article  with  the  associations.  That  he  moved 
very  gingerly,  but  whether  for  memory's  sake  or  for 
44 


THE  TROPHIES,  45 

the  fear  that  it  would  suddenly  drop  to  pieces,  as  it 
seemed  sorely  tempted  to  do,  might  be  an  open  ques- 
tion. He  had  just  descended  the  ladder  and  climbed 
again  to  the  front  of  the  wagon  when  Jerold  appeared 
in  the  yard. 

"  Oi  say.  Mister  Jerry  !"  he  called  out.  "  Ye're 
jist  in  time  t'  take  a  hand.  Here,  give  us  a  lift  on 
this  bidstid.^' 

Jerold  lingered  a  moment  to  set  his  cake  in  a,  place 
of  safety,  then  hurried  forward  with  the  accommo- 
dating good-fellowship  of  the  camp. 

"  Double  bed  and  single  springs  !"  he  ejaculated,  as 
he  helped  to  lift  them  from  the  wagon  and  prop  them 
against  the  barn.  "Excellent  combination!  What 
else?" 

The  commotion  in  the  yard  had  wakened  the  old 
man,  and  he  now  came  sheepishly  forward,  unable  to 
resist  the  temptation  of  looking  again  at  his  trophies. 

"  Hello,  pa !"- Jerold  called  out  as  he  appeared, "  how 
are  you  feeling  this  afternoon  ?" 

"  Pretty  low,  Jerry,  pretty  low.  I've  one  of  my 
bad  spells  on  again,  an'  I  feel  very  downish.  I'll  be 
carried  off  in  one  of  these  attacks  yet,  I'm  afraid." 

Mr.  Wayburn's  misdemeanors  always  awoke  in  him 
a  suspicion  that  he  was  possessed  of  a  treacherous  con- 
stitution, and  Jerold  turned  aside  rather  abruptly  that 
he  might  indulge  unobserved  in  a  little  quiet  laughter. 


46  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  my  purchase  ?"  the  old  man 
ventured,  drawing  nearer.  "Rather  good  selection, 
shouldn't  you  say/' 

"  Yes,  I'd  be  likely  to  say  that  if  I  said  anything," 
Jerold  replied,  equivocally.  "  But  this  queer  old  puri- 
tan-backed chair,  what  did  you  get  that  for  ?" 

"  Oh,  that's  a  curiosity.  Rogers  says  it's  a  very  old 
chair  and  it's  got  a  history;  he  didn't  just  know  what 
its  history  was,  but  he  remembers  its  owner's  telling 
him  it  had  one.     It  needs  a  nail  or  two,  though." 

"  Yes,  a  nail  or  two — and  a  leg  or  two.  An  adjust- 
able back  might  add  to  its  comfort,  and  a  new  seat 
might  be  ornamental.  How  had  you  thought  of  fixing 
it?" 

James  Wayburn  hesitated  a  moment.  The  practical 
consideration  of  use  had  not  intruded  upon  his  thought 
in  buying  only  the  venerable  antiquity. 

"  I  hadn't  quite  decided,"  he  answered  at  last. 
There  was  something  pathetic  in  his  abused  expres- 
sion as  he  looked  up  at  Jerold,  an  expression  which 
said  plainly  that  it  pained  him  to  know  there  was 
a  human  being  capable  of  cornering  an  innocent  old 
man. 

"  I'll  fix  it  up  some  way,  Jerry,"  he  said.  "  I  haven't 
hit  on  just  how,  but  it  '11  come  to  me, — it  always 
comes  to  me.  These  heirlooms  are  desirable  things  to 
keep  in  a  family." 


THE   TROPHIES.  47 

"It  will  do  nicely  for  the  parlor.  Ebony  is  so 
fashionable  though  now,  I  believe  I^d  paint  it  black 
first;  it  would  be  handsome  then." 

"  Do  you  think  so,  really  ?  Well,  danno  but  you're 
right.     I'll  fix  it  up  stylish,  you'll  see." 

That  any  one  could  be  making  fun  at  his  expense,  or 
that  there  was  ever  anything  ludicrous  in  his  actions, 
was  the  last  thought  to  find  lodging  in  James  Way- 
burn's  mind;  so  he  took  Jerold's  suggestions  all  in 
good  faith.  But  Sarah  had  chanced  out  into  the  yard 
just  in  time  to  catch  Jerold's  last  remark,  and  his 
humorous  indulgence  of  her  father's  offences  exasper- 
ated her  beyond  measure. 

"  Jerold  Bray !"  she  struck  in,  in  her  most  uncom- 
promising tone,  "I'm  'shamed  of  you.  You  know 
them  traps  '11  never  enter  this  house.  They're  a  lot 
of  rubbish  that  no  one  but  pa  could  have  found  in  a 
year's  hunt." 

"That  gal's  got  a  tongue  th'  very  brother  o'  my 
wife's,"  muttered  Mike.  "Thim  tongues  is  tirrible 
thin's  t'  live  wid.  There  beint  no  suitin'  th'  wimen 
nowadays." 

"  This  has  jist  got  past  bearin',"  Sarah  continued, 
"  and  I  will  have  my  say  out  'bout  it.  There's  that 
old  blind  nag  in  the  barn,  an'  all  this  stuff  here,  an' 
last  week  tw6nty-four  yards  of  bright  green  flannel 
that  no  livin'  bein'  could  put  t'  any  use " 


48  A   BLIND  LEAD. 

**  Send  it  to  the  parsonage,  pa,"  whispered  Jerold. 

"Why,  yes,  so  I  might;  that's  a  good  idea,"  he 
answered,  gratefully. 

"I  tell  you  this  thing's  gone  as  far  's  it's  goin', 
and " 

"  Here,  sister,  you're  hungry ;  nervous  besides.  Have 
a  bite  of  my  doughnut,"  said  Jerold,  banteringly. 

Now,  her  father's  rubbish  was  a  veritable  eyesore  to 
the  careful  young  housekeeper,  and  Jerold's  tantalizing 
chaff  was  heaping  fuel  on  the  flames.  This  last  sang- 
froid  was  more  than  she  could  bear,  and  her  black 
eyes  blazed  as  she  turned  on  her  sister's  lover. 

"  Jerold  Bray,  you're  the  torment  of  ray  existence. 
If  I  wasn't  fightin'  all  the  time  we  might 's  well  give 
up  tryin'  t'  live  here  and  move  into  the  barn  at  once." 
With  a  sense  of  the  impotence  of  her  wrath,  she 
whisked  about  and  stalked  back  into  the  house. 

"Egad,  but  ain't  she  peppery?"  soliloquized  Mike. 
"  Her  man  '11  be  drinkin'  his  tay  hot,  I'm  thinkiii'." 
Then  applying  himself  to  business  again :  "  Here, 
Mister  Jerry,  kin  ye  take  this?" 

Most  men  would  have  been  ruffled  at  the  outpour- 
ing of  Sarah's  vials,  particularly  when  her  indignation 
was  so  righteous,  but  no  strength  of  invective  could 
affect  the  imperturbable  Jerold.  He  sent  after  her  a 
snatch  of  a  plaintive  love-song  which,  closing  in  a 
softly-thrilled  whistle,  was   supposed   to   express   his 


THE  TROPHIES.  49 

despair  at  her  desertion,  and  with  the  same  easy 
good  humor  he  turned  again  to  assist  Mike  at  the 
wagon. 

"  What's  the  wheelbarrow  for,  pa  ?"  he  inquired,  as 
they  lifted  it  to  the  ground. 

"  Oh,  it  was  going  so  cheap,"  Mr.  Wayburn  offered 
in  apology. 

"And  these  faded  old — I  mean  these  genteelly 
sombre  curtains?'' 

"  I  didn't  buy  them ;  Rogers  threw  them  in." 

"  And  this ! — a  side-saddle  1"  as  Mike  threw  it  dex- 
terously through  the  air  to  him.  "  In  all  the  world 
who  could  ever  get  together  such  a  collection  but  you, 
pa?  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  the  side-saddle, — 
ride  the  wheelbarrow  ?" 

"  No,  that's  for  Ellen  too.  Ma  said  she  ought  to 
have  horseback-riding  after  school,  and  I've  had  my 
eye  out  for  one  for  a  long  time." 

"  What's  she  to  ride, — that  blind  horse  of  yours  ?" 

"  'Tain't  blind,  Jerry ;  that  is,  'tain't  stun-blind.  It 
sees  out  of  one  eye.  I  can't  make  out  which,  but  I 
know  it's  either  one.  Besides,  it's  getting  better,  for  it 
don't  step  so  high  at  all  as  when  it  first  come.  I'm 
sure  it's  perfectly  safe." 

"  Perfectly,"  echoed  Jerry.  "  Perfectly !  nothing 
the  matter  with  the  horse  except  that  he  doesn't  look 
very  well.     Eh,  pa?" 

c        d  5 


50  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

"  Ypu're  tlTe  diviPs  own  jister,  Master  Jerry/'  said 
Mike,  with  a  grin. 

"If  Sarah  would  make  up  a  few  yards  of  that 
pretty  green  stuff,  pa,''  continued  Jerry,  "  into  a  nice 
habit,  and  take  a  ride  on  that  horse,  she'd  electrify  the 
camp.  And  if  she  should  find  him  a  little  hard  to 
steer,"  he  added,  "  why,  she  can  twist  his  ear.  I've 
always  heard  when  sight  was  gone  the  ear  was  uncom- 
monly sensitive."  And  he  laughed  loudly  at  his  own 
absurdity. 

But  the  mother  appeared  in  the  door-way  and 
hastened  to  cut  the  scene  short  by  telling  Mike  to  re- 
move the  things  to  the  loft ;  and,  leaving  him  to  his 
task,  the  rest  returned  together  to  the  house. 

The  Sunday  following,  after  the  service,  the  white- 
taired  preacher  rose  to  say  a  few  words  about  the  new 
pastor,  whom,  with  his  young  bride,  they  expected  the 
coming  week.  He  was  pleased  to  announce  that  the 
parsonage  was  finished,  and  that  the  furnishing  would 
be  done  by  the  following  Wednesday.  He  thanked 
the  people  heartily  for  their  sympathy  and  help,  and, 
as  the  contributions  were  all  in,  he  would  proceed  to 
read  the  names  of  the  donors  and  the  articles  donated. 
Herewith  followed  the  list.  "  And  last,  received  yes- 
terday from  our  kind  brother  in  the  Lord,  James  Way- 
burn,  a  pair  of  damask  curtains,  an  antique  chair,  a 
Baw-buck,  and  ten  green  bedspreads." 


THE  TROPHIES.  51 

There  was  a  smile,  faint  at  first,  which  broadened 
and  deepened  and  hung  suspended.  Then  a  clear,  con- 
tagious laugh  rang  out  from  somewhere  near  the  door- 
way, and  the  spell  was  broken,  A  wave  of  laughter 
rippled  and  swelled,  and  in  a  burst  of  uncontrollable 
mirth  the  congregation  dispersed. 

For  a  moment  Ellen  Wayburn's  head  was  bent  in 
humiliation,  then  leaning  over,  she  took  in  her  own  the 
wrinkled  hand  and  whispered,  softly,  "It  was  very 
kind  of  you  to  send  them,  father ;  I  love  you  dearly.'* 
And  all  unconscious  of  what  had  caused  tlie  amuse- 
ment, with  a  light  heart  the  old  man  followed  his 
daughter  home. 


CHAPTER    VIL 


THE  ROMP  OF  THE  CAMP. 


James  Wayburn's  little  foible,  while  it  furnished 
thus  a  pleasant  enough  relaxation  to  himself,  had  the 
awkward  faculty,  so  peculiar  to  foibles,  of  involving 
others  in  its  consequences. 

Some  people  are  born  with  an  accommodating  dis- 
position which  accepts  its  fate  as  the  victim  of  events 
and  upbraids  not ;  which  receives  as  a  finality  the  law 
of  reaction  in  the  moral  world,  and  sees  in  itself  a 
natural  barrier  to  catch  the  recoil.  Of  such  were 
Mrs.  Way  burn  and  Ellen.  All  through  life  the  re- 
sults of  the  old  man's  folly  had  struck  liardest  upon 
them,  yet  they  were  the  least  reproachful.  In  the 
mind  of  each  there  was  at  times  a  suspicion  that  the 
other,  like  herself,  doubted  his  responsibility.  Was 
he  not  in  this  one  element  of  character  an  undeveloped 
child,  repenting  to  the  uttermost  at  each  transgression, 
yet  transgressing  again  at  the  next  temptation  ?  Many 
men  carry  through  life  a  faculty  that  remains' forever 
in  the  germ,  and  several  such  germs  seemed  to  have 
fallen  to  the  lot  of  James  Way  burn. 
62 


THE  ROMP  OF  THE   CAMP.  53 

But  the  other  members  of  his  family  were  not 
equally  iudulgent.  An  instinct  for  the  vicarious  is 
not  universal.  Some  are  inclined  to  resent  being  the 
penalty  that  others  may  be  the  offence,  and  Sarah 
Wayburn  was  emphatically  one  of  these. 

It  was  her  favorite  theory  that  her  temper,  which 
was  at  times  a  trifle  acerb,  was  all  the  outgrowth  of 
her  father's  provocations;  that  his  constant  lapsing 
from  grace,  like  the  steady  dripping  of  a  drop,  had 
worn  away  even  the  adamant  of  her  patience.  Possi- 
bly this  was  only  one  of  the  ingenious  little  fictions 
which  human  nature  delights  to  invent  in  apology 
for  its  defects.  Possibly,  however,  there  was  a  phan- 
tom of  truth  in  the  statement,  for  his  misdeeds  struck 
no  one  so  in  the  light  of  a  personal  affront  as  they  did 
Sarah.  On  the  other  hand,  no  one  had  her  genius  for 
disturbing  the  placidity  of  the  old  gentleman.  She 
succeeded  at  times  in  making  him  almost  uncom- 
fortable, which  was  surely  a  cruel  retaliation  for  his 
innocent  diversion. 

To  another  inmate  of  the  house,  however,  the  old 
man's  trophies  were  a  source  of  unfailing  delight. 
They  furnished  material  upon  which  her  ebullient 
energy  could  exhaust  itself  and  the  resources  of  her 
fertile  intellect  find  fruitful  exercise.  If  by  any 
chance  James  Wayburn  failed  to  extract  the  full 
measure    of   annoyance   by    his    misdeeds,    she   sup- 

6* 


54  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

plemented  him  and  rounded  the  full  circle.  In  her 
hands  his  eflPects  had  the  unhappy  power  (which  must 
have  been  induced  like  electricity)  of  becoming  in 
turn  causes  and  involving  the  household  in  further 
consequences.  One  of  these  domestic  events  was 
being  discussed  late  one  afternoon,  and  the  interview 
was  somewhat  spirited. 

"  Ada !  Ada !"  Mrs.  Wayburn  was  exclaiming  in  a 
tone  wherein  distress  and  reproach  were  scarcely  veiled, 
"whatever  am  I  going  to  do  with  you?  You  keep 
us  the  talk  of  the  neighborhood  with  your  pranks." 

"Pranks!  Grandma,  I  haven't  done  a  single 
thing,"  Ada  insisted,  blandly. 

"Why  can't  folks  let  that  child  be?"  came  a  dis- 
gusted voice  from  the  kitchen.  "  Everything  she  does 
is  talked  about  and  swelled  till  it's  the  size  of  th'  big 
butte.  Times 's  pretty  dull  if  people  can't  find  nothin' 
better  to  think  'bout." 

"She's  always  gettin'  into  trouble,"  sighed  the 
grandmother. 

"  Ma  dear,  she  don't  git  into  no  more  trouble  than 
other  girls.  Them  old  nose-'bouts  is  jealous  of  her 
because  she's  smart  and  pretty,  that's  th'  rub.  Last 
week  skatin'  she  fell  down.  Half  a  dozen  stupids 
that  had  no  business  there  at  all,  sence  they  couldn't 
hold  on  to  their  own  feet,  tumbled  over  her,  and  it  was 
*  that  awful  Ada  Howard.'     Then  she  took  the  Dean 


THE  ROMP  OF  THE   CAMP.  55 

cliildren  ridiu'  in  th'  wheelbarrer,  Isaac  rolled  out, 
and  it  was  ^  that  careless  Ada  Howard/  " 

^'  She  shouldn't  a  took  'em  in  it  at  all.  Then  there 
wouldn't  hev  been  no  one  hurt." 

"  I  notice  that  Dean  family's  mighty  willin'  she'll 
take  care  of  th'  young  uns  all  the  same.  It's  only 
when  somethin'  happens  that  she  ain't  in  demand.  I 
don't  go  much  on  that  kit  no  way." 

Sarah  had  been  growing  excited, — a  mention  of 
the  Deans  always  excited  her.  Mrs.  Wayburn  feared 
that  she  was  precipitating  what  she  dreaded  most  of  all 
things,  one  of  those  lawless  outbursts  in  which  her 
daughter  "  straightened  out"  the  little  community  of 
her  acquaintances.  These  were  the  days  of  reckon- 
ing when  they  all  gave  her  a  wide  berth,  none  a  wider 
than  old  James  Wayburn. 

"  Well,  well,"  the  mother  said,  in  a  mollifying  tone, 
"  I'd  try  and  be  careful  if  I  was  her,  and  I  guess  she 
liadn't  better  ride  Jenny  again;  it  ain't  safe.  She 
might  have  got  killed  yesterday  pitchin'  over  the 
critter's  head.  It  ain't  reliable,  and  Ada  ain't  very 
reliable  herself." 

"  What  business  has  pa  got  keepin'  that  blind 
cay  use  ?"  persisted  Sarah.  "  She'll  walk  over  anything. 
'Tain't  the  child's  fault, — Jenny  can't  see.  If  you  keep 
stumblin'  horses,  what's  to  be  expected  but  that  folks 
'11  be  thrun  off  and  killed?" 


56  A   BLIND  LEAD. 

"  It's  always  your  way,  Sarah/'  said  the  mother, 
severely,  "  to  stick  up  for  her  right  or  wrong/' 

"  Right  or  wrong  ?  Now,  mother  dear,  there  never 
is  any  right,  and  that's  what  makes  me  so  mad.  It 
was  jist  th'  same  way  when  I  was  growin'  up.  Folks 
got  it  into  their  crotchety  heads  I  was  mischievous, 
and  I  couldn't  do  nothin'  without  I  was  bound  to  get 
a  settin'  down  about  it," 

"You  was  into  consider'ble  mischief,  daughter,  if 
I  remember,"  said  her  mother,  naively. 

"  There  it  is,  you  see !  I  don't  wonder  I'm  a  fighter. 
I've  fit  all  my  life  for  one  thing  an'  another,  and  I'll 
fight  the  whole  town  for  Ada  but  her  fun  shan't  be 
crushed  out  of  her." 

"  You  nice  Aunt  Sarah,"  said  Ada,  throwing  her 
arms  about  the  substantial  waist  of  her  young  aunt. 
"  I  couldn't  get  along  if  I  hadn't  you  to  back  me  up." 

"You're  more  trouble  than  you're  worth,"  Sarah 
replied,  turning  upon  her  petulantly,  but  looking  down 
into  the  mischievous  face  with  a  sort  of  extorted  affec- 
tionateness.  She  was  Ada's  protector  always,  for  the 
girl  was  her  delight,  the  joy  of  her  life.  In  all  the 
child's  troubles,  and  they  were  many,  Sarah  was  the 
unfailing  refuge.  She  could  not  tolerate  anything 
that  reflected  upon  her  darling.  And  yet  she  was  not 
blind  to  Ada's  doings;  only,  like  all  jealous  lovers,  she 
proposed  to  sit  in  judgment  and  mete  out  punishment 


THE  ROMP  OF  THE  CAMP.  57 

herself.  But  the  punishment  was  slow  in  coming,  for 
the  child  in  the  alertness  of  her  need  had  learned  a 
trick  of  throwing  her  chubby  arms  about  her  aunt  and 
looking  up  with  an  assumption  of  trust  that  disarmed 
hostility.  Now  the  impatience  was  vanishing  from 
Sarah's  face,  and  an  indulgent  smile  was  hovering 
there  instead.  But,  as  if  ashamed  of  her  lenity,  she 
stole  a  last  admiring  glance  at  the  petted  child,  snatched 
up  her  dish,  and  beat  a  hasty  retreat  to  the  kitchen, 
where  she  applied  herself  to  her  duties  once  more. 

Quite  another  phase  of  Ada's  character  it  was,  how- 
ever, that  endeared  her  to  the  hearts  of  the  miners  and 
made  her  the  idol  of  the  camp.  The  adventurous 
blood  of  the  prospector  was  in  her  veins,  and  her  un- 
tamed nature  found  the  same  keen  delight  in  mining 
that  the  hunter  feels  in  the  excitement  of  the  chase. 
Almost  any  bright  day  she  might  be  seen  following 
her  roving  fancy  and  wandering  over  the  hills  to  her 
father's  mine.  She  loitered  at  every  shaft  along  the 
way,  and  not  a  man  but  paused  at  his  work  to  welcome 
her  bright  young  face  and  respond  to  her  cheery  greet- 
ing. It  amused,  while  it  gratified  them  to  hear  her 
questions  about  the  ore,  how  much  they  were  getting 
out,  how  high  it  ran,  etc.,  etc.,  and  burly  giants  found 
themselves  telling  to  this  girl  simply  and  truthfully 
facts  no  man  could  have  forced  from  them.  She  knew 
the  condition  of  every  property  in   the   district,  the 


58  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

owners  and  the  leasers,  and  hailed  them  all  by  name. 
What  wonder  if  out  in  these  solitary  places  the  little 
groups  of  men  felt  her  coming  like  a  sudden  flood 
of  sunshine  in  their  midst,  and  took  as  an  omen  of  luck 
the  good  wishes  she  expressed?  She  had  hosts  of 
champions  in  these  horny-handed,  strong-limbed  men, 
men  of  fierce,  wild  passions  and  impulses,  who  would 
yet  have  throttled  the  voice  that  could  breathe  a  coarse- 
ness in  her  presence.  Such  flowers  were  too  rare  in 
the  arid  desert  of  their  lives  for  them  to  permit  a 
breath  of  evil  to  scorch  its  velvet  petals. 

But  they  felt  a  claim  to  Ada  beyond  that  of 
their  affection,  for  was  she  not  one  of  them,  John 
Howard's  girl  ?  As  she  passed  on  her  way,  many  a 
hard  face,  looking  after  her,  grew  softened  with  the 
memory  of  its  own  home  and  childhood,  and  many  a 
heart  yet  vibrant  with  her  parting  uttered  an  earnest 
"  God-speed"  to  John  Howard  of  the  Eucher  for  the 
sake  of  this  sunny-haired  daughter  of  the  miner. 


CHAPTER    yill. 

A  DISCUSSION  OF  PRINCIPLES. 

While  Sarah  was  engaged  with  her  dishes  suddenly 
a  form  darkened  the  outside  door-way,  and  she  looked 
up. 

"  Jerold  Bray  !^'  she  exclaimed,  transfixing  him  with 
the  disdain  of  her  black  eyes.  "Why  don't  you  go 
'round  to  the  front  door  ?" 

"  Tm  not  proud.  I  always  make  for  whatever  door 
is  nearest  or  smells  most  like  cooking,  and  that's  gen- 
erally this  one." 

"Well !  well !  get  'long  in  where  the  folks  is.  Mar- 
cia !  Ada !  here's  Jerry." 

A  salutation  came  from  the  sitting-room,  and,  fol- 
lowing it,  Jerold  sauntered  in  where  Mrs.  Wayburn* 
and  Marcia  were  seated  sewing.  He  leaned  over  the 
back  of  a  chair  with  the  careless  grace  that  attended 
all  his  movements,  and,  "Why  don't  you  ask  me  the 
news  ?"  he  said. 

"What  is  it?"  they  cried,  leaning  forward  in  expec- 
tancy. 

"  Oh,  I'll  tell  you  by  and  by,"  he  replied,  with  pro- 
voking nonchalance. 

69 


60  ^  BfjIND  LEAD. 

"  Tell  it  now  I  tell  it !"  cried  Ada.  But  Sarah  stood 
listlessly  against  the  wall,  her  bare  arms  crossed  behind 
her,  a  picture  of  easy  indifference.  Not  that  she  was 
less  interested  than  the  rest  or  less  impatient  for  the 
gossip,  but  she  knew  it  would  be  impossible  for  Jerold 
Bray  to  keep  his  information  long  in  the  secrecy  of  his 
own  bosom.  Like  other  narrators,  he  was  seeking  ef- 
fect by  tightening  the  tension  of  curiosity,  and  the  less 
eager  they  appeared  the  sooner  his  own  zest  for  sur- 
prises would  precipitate  a  disclosure. 

"  Hain't  got  anythin^  to  tell,"  she  ejaculated.  Cross- 
ing the  kitchen,  she  picked  up  the  water-bucket  and 
walked  to  the  door.  But  Jerold  was  not  going  to  be 
cheated  of  his  audience  in  that  way.  Taking  the 
bucket  from  her,  he  hurried  out  and  away  along  the 
adjoining  block  to  the  common  hydrant,  for  the  luxury 
of  water  in  the  house  was  a  thing  little  known  in 
Colusa.  Ada  hurried  after  him,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
they  came  back.  One  might  judge  that  the  trip  had 
not  been  altogether  uneventful,  for  Ada's  curls  were 
wet,  Jerold's  attire  had  lost  some  of  its  wonted  fault- 
lessness,  and  the  bucket  was  only  a  quarter  full. 

The  noise  had  attracted  Ellen,  who  now  entered  the 
room,  her  face  lighting  happily  as  she  welcomed  Jerold 
and  took  the  chair  which  he  drew  up  for  her  beside  his 
own. 

"You're  just  in  time  to  hear  the  news,"  he  said, 


A  DISCUSSION  OF  PRINCIPLES.  61 

unable  longer  to  restrain  himself:  "  Miss  Hudson  has 
been  privately  married." 

"For  mercy^s  sake!"  "You  don't  say  so!"  and 
"Gracious  on  us!"  came  out  simultaneously. 

"Who's  she  married  to?"  some  one  at  last  found 
breath  to  inquire. 

"That's  the  surprise;  to— Koger  Forsythe." 

"  Roger  Forsythe !"  sang  all  in  a  chorus. 

*'  Roger  Forsythe !  AVell,  she  struck  pay  rock  that 
time,  sure,"  added  Sarah,  the  practical. 

"  How  in  the  world  did  she  come  to  marry  him  ?" 
asked  Marcia.     "  He's  sixty  if  he's  a  day ;  and  so  ugly." 

"The  Meadow-Lark  and  a  million  will  cover  as 
many  defects,"  replied  Jerold,  sagely. 

"Why,  Jerold,"  said  Ellen,  "you  don't  mean  us 
to  think  she  married  him  for  his  money?" 

"  What  else  did  she  marry  him  for,  innocence,  his 
years  or  his  good  looks,  which  ?" 

"  But  why  because  a  girl  marries  a  rich  man  must 
the  world  set  it  down  at  once  that  she  chose  him  for 
his  dollars?" 

"Because  the  world  has  found  out  by  experience 
that  nine  cases  out  of  ten  she  does  choose  him  for  his 
dollars.  It  is,  alas !  a  conclusion  reached  by  the  induc- 
tive method,  in  examining  the  motives  impelling  to 
the  decision  of  the  aforesaid  nine."  He  drew  a  long 
breath  and  leaned  back. 


62  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  believe  that  Miss  Hudson's 
the  ingenuous  tenth,"  said  Ellen,  frankly.  "  She  has 
shown  herself  true  and  unselfish  in  everything  else, 
why  shouldn't  she  in  this  ?" 

"  And  what,  pray,  could  be  more  unselfish  than  to 
marry  rich  old  Forsythe?  He  needs  a  wife  badly 
enough,  that  is  reason  number  one.  She  needs  a  home 
badly  enough,  ditto  number  two.  The  camp  needs  a 
sensation  badly  enough,  ditto  number  three.  Alto- 
gether a  very  commendable  choice,  very  commendable 
indeed." 

Ellen  looked  at  him  with  puzzled  uncertainty.  Was 
he  chaffing,  or  expressing  genuine  sentiments?  The 
smile  on  his  face  only  confused  her  the  more,  for  it 
was  genial  but  defiant. 

"  Do  you  think  any  reason  would  justify  her  in 
marrying  him  if  she  didn't  love  him?"  she  asked, 
seriously. 

"  Do  I  ?  Well,  most  certainly  I  do.  I  have  some 
saving  common  sense  left,  I  hope.  Worldly  wisdom  is 
what  this  age  needs;  it's  getting  too  sentimental  alto- 
gether." 

Ellen  winced ;  clearly  his  remark  had  struck  some 
chord  that  was  sensitive.  It  was  only  a  question  of 
utilitarianism  or  idealism,  but  it  revealed  the  natures 
of  the  two, — these  two  who  had  chosen  to  go  through 
life    together.      They   were   very  unlike,  Ellen    and 


A  DISCUSSION  OF  PRINCIPLES.  63 

Jerold.  Possibly  too,  though  Jerold  had  never  dis- 
sected it,  it  was  this  very  difference  in  Ellen  that  had 
been  the  subtle  power  of  her  attraction  for  him.  In 
the  rush  of  the  busy  money-getting  camp  there  was 
something  unique  in  her  quiet,  isolated  soul,  with  its 
long  range  of  purpose  and  impractical  ideas.  It  re- 
freshed him  to  find  a  woman  who  was  not  interested 
in  mines;  who  was  personally  unconcerned  whether 
the  camp  boomed  or  collapsed  to-morrow;  who  did 
not  look  forward  to  being  rich  or  distinguished,  and 
yet  who  was  not  conscious  that  she  was  an  anomaly. 
But  though  Jerold  recognized  Ellen's  superiority,  he 
was  constantly  incited,  as  now,  by  some  erratic  impulse, 
to  an  attack  upon  the  very  distinctions  he  most  ad- 
mired. Was  it  the  weakness  common  to  us  all  that 
envies  the  good  it  does  not  possess  ?  Or  the  prompt- 
ings of  doubt  that  sought  the  reassurance  that  its  idol 
was  not  like  itself — dust? 

"Suppose  she  doesn't  grow  to  love  him?"  Ellen 
asked.  Her  pertinacity  seemed  heedless  of  the  thrusts 
it  might  incur. 

"Well,  what  proportion  of  the  people  that  marry 
are  possessed  of  any  such  lofty  ideal  as  you  uphold  ? 
One-twentieth  do  you  think  ?  And  of  that  twentieth 
what  number  carry  it  through  life?  Very  few. 
We're  all  human,  and  the  ideal  in  love,  as  in  every- 
thing else,  is  hardly  nutritious  enough  for  steady  diet." 


64  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

"  Why,  Jerold,  you  traitor  !"  she  exclaimed,  with  a 
smile  that  was  half  reproachful. 

"  Traitor  it  may  be,  but  to  my  mind  good  sober 
respect  and  esteem  are  more  enduring,  and  so  better 
motives  for  choice  than  love.  Most  love  is  too  spas- 
modic to  bear  life's  high  pressure.'* 

"  If  love  won't  bear  it,  I'm  sure  esteem  and  re- 
spect won't." 

"  I  don't  count  much  on  any  of  them  for  standing 
a  strain,"  he  replied.  "People  endure  in  this  world 
because  they  must,  not  because  of  any  principle." 

Ellen's  lips  opened  to  reply;  she  checked  herself, 
however,  and  a  pained  expression  lingered  upon  them 
instead.  Jerold's  discordant  views  she  generally  passed 
over,  burying  them  out  of  sight  in  that  deep  gulf  that 
silence  covers.  No  two  minds  could  be  forced  into  the 
same  mould ;  diversity  was  as  essential  as  unity,  and 
opposing  theories  were  to  be  expected  in  the  world. 
She  was  too  large-natured  to  fix  the  bounds  for  his 
opinions  and  too  generous  to  arraign  him.  But  to-day 
their  minds  seemed  to  clash  on  what  to  her  were  vital 
questions,  and  after  a  pause  she  came  back  to  the  dis- 
cussion. 

"Her  husband's  life — his  character?"  she  asked. 
"How  is  that?" 

"  Oh,  his  character's  no  worse  than  other  men's.  I 
fancy  when  a  man  has  kicked  about  from  one  mining- 


A   DISCUSSION  OF  PRINCIPLES.  QQ 

camp  to  another  for  thirty  years  the  less  said  about  his. 
character  the  better.     Bat  then  he  is  honest,  respected, 
as  I  said,  no  worse  than  other  men.     What  more  can 
she  ask?" 

"She  can  ask  no  more,  evidently,  since  she  has 
accepted  him,  but  for  me, — may  Heaven  spare  me 
from  such  a  union." 

"  Heaven  promises  faithfully  to  spare  you  from  such 
an  alliance  with  a  millionaire,"  he  answered,  with  an 
amused  laugh. 

She  blushed  and  smiled  at  the  personal  issue  of  the 
conversation.  The  talk  diverted  to  indifferent  themes 
now,  but  Ellen  did  not  engage  in  it ;  she  was  thinking. 

There  was  much  in  the  camp-life  about  her  passing 
unnoticed,  or  accepted  as  legitimate,  that  forced  itself 
before  the  tribunal  of  this  girPs  conscience.  But  with 
the  charity  of  the  humble  she  forbore  judgment. 
One  might  have  imagined  now,  had  he  glanced  in, 
that  some  faint  idea  of  an  imperfection  in  her  lover 
bad  penetrated  Ellen's  mind,  but  that  would  have 
been  an  error.  Imperfection  could  not  associate  itself 
with  Jerold  Bray  in  her  loyal  heart.  Yet  her  next 
question,  sprung  upon  him  abruptly,  seemed  to  the 
young  man  like  an  indictment. 

'^Do  you  think  any  reason,  even  love,  justifies  a 
woman  in  marrying  one  whose  character  she  cannot 
thoroughly  respect  ?" 

e  6* 


QQ  A   BLIND  LEAD. 

"That's  a  bad  way  to  express  it/'  he  answered, 
coldly,  satisfied  after  a  moment  that  he  had  been 
needlessly  alarmed.  "  Character  is  a  variable ;  what 
one  would  call  unblemished  another  would  hold  de- 
filed, w^iat  you  might  consider  indispensable  another 
wouldn't  require  at  all.  No  man  is  perfect.  The 
measure  rests  entirely  in  the  standard.  If  the  nature- 
measuring  is  loftier  and  applies  its  yardstick,  his  char- 
acter may  fail  to  reach  to  the  required  length.  If 
you  apply  a  shorter  yardstick  you  may  find  that  there 
is  a  good  piece  left  over." 

"Oh,  do  stop  discussing,"  put  in  Ada,  "and  tell  us 
about  the  wedding  and  what  she  wore." 

"  Ada,  don't  snatch  us  out  of  the  abstract  so  sud- 
denly," said  Jerold,  in  a  distressed  tone.  "  I  hate  ends 
of  discussion  lying  around  loose.  Besides,  this  point  is 
of  great  importance.  Who  knows?  I  may  be  rushing 
away  to  forbid  the  further  sacrifice  of  the  innocent." 

"Sacrifice,"  repeated  Ada.  "I'll  wager  she  was 
glad  enough  to  get  him.  I  guess  Mrs.  Roger  For- 
sythe  '11  be  of  lots  more  consequence  than  plain  Kate 
Hudson, — if  she  was  pretty." 

Jerold  laughed  airly  at  the  incidental  endorsement. 

"  You  see,  Ellen,  my  statement  is  likely  to  find  con- 
firmation pretty  near  home.  Ada's  yardstick  certainly 
differs  from  yours  both  in  length  and  quality,  and  I 
can  assure  you  Ada's  is  much  nearer  the  world's  idea." 


A  DISCUSSION   OF  PRINCIPLES.  67 

"  It  isn't  the  true  idea  for  all  that/'  she  said,  de- 
cidedly. 

"  Oh,  I  know  you're  wedded  to  your  theories."  He 
glanced  oflf  furtively.  "I  sometimes  wonder  how 
they  would  stand  the  test." 

She  crimsoned  and  closed  her  eyes  a  moment,  as  if 
to  shut  out  the  hurt  look  that  crept  into  them,  then 
answered,  slowly, — 

"  We  are  all  lower  than  our  ideals ;  lower  in  act, 
even,  than  in  our  soul's  thought  and  habit ;  but  prin- 
ciple is  not  without  life  for  all  that.  I  should  wish 
at  the  call  to  show  its  power  in  deed,  since  my  words 
have  so  poorly  vindicated  it." 

She  folded  close  the  hands  that  lay  idly  in  her  lap, 
and  looked  out  through  the  window  to  the  jagged 
granite  cliffs.  Upon  the  mountain-sides  the  snow  had 
vanished,  for  it  was  September,  but  down  from  the 
top,  here  and  there,  it  shot  in  radiating  streaks  like 
thin  locks  falling  upon  an  old  man's  shoulders.  The 
clouds,  rich  in  the  opal  lustre  of  the  sunset,  were 
floating  along  the  crests;  through  them  she  could 
catch  the  faint  outlines  illumined  with  the  same  mel- 
low splendor.  But  the  peaks,  like  upturned  human 
faces,  were  gazing  beyond  the  lights  of  earth  and  cloud 
and  sun  up  into  the  dreamy  mystery  of  the  blue.  She 
felt  a  twinge  of  pity  for  the  senseless,  earth-bound 
things,   that    had    caught    man's    folly    of    longing. 


68  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

Better  the  barren  waste  of  rocks  below  that  glittered 
like  steel  where  the  rays  struck  their  flinty  edges,  con- 
tent to  reflect  the  changing  world  around,  than  these 
cold,  pallid  peaks  glaring  into  the  beyond.  Her 
revery  was  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  her  mother's 
voice. 

"This  here's  been  a  great  year  for  weddin's,"  she 
was  musing. 

"  I  should  think  so,"  assented  Marcia.  "  What's  to 
become  of  us  spinsters?  There  are  no  marriageable, 
that  is,  rich  marriageable,  men  left." 

"  Oh,  there's  old  Thomas  Burke  yet,"  replied  Sarah, 
maliciously. 

"And  'dear  Deacon  Frost,'"  she  retorted.  "So 
you  are  provided  for." 

"And  Robert  Hall — but  I'm  going  to  have  him," 
said  Ada. 

"  Robert  Hall  marry !  An  elephant  fly !"  exclaimed 
Jerold,  with  contempt. 

"  And  why  not,  if  he  got  a  nice,  sensible  girl  like 
me?" 

"  That  would  be  a  match ;  I'll  have  to  suggest  it  to 
him." 

"  Anyway,  he's  the  nicest  man  in  this  camp,"  said 
Marcia. 

"All  the  family  want  him?  Robert  the  silent 
seems  to  be  in  demand." 


A  DISCUSSION  OF  PRINCIPLES.  69 

"  You  can't  say  anything  against  his  character,  that's 
certain,"  she  insisted,  warmly. 

"  Not  if  we  allow  that  he  has  such  an  attribute  as 
character.  Why  in  the  world  do  the  women  all  favor 
that  fellow,  when  he  never  takes  the  slightest  notice  of 
any  of  them  ?  that's  what  I  wonder.  He's  the  biggest 
bundle  of  negations  I  ever  saw." 

"  Negations  ?     What  do  you" mean  ?"  asked  Ellen. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  him  show  a  touch  of  feeling  over 
anything  or  display  affection  for  a  living  creature? 
He  is  reserved,  silent,  and  haughty,  and,  in  my 
humble  judgment,  half  the  qualities  that  are  bestowed 
on  mankind  in  general  were  left  out  in  his  composi- 
tion." 

The  color  deepened  in  Ellen's  cheek,  but  she  an- 
swered, calmly, — 

"  No  one  who  has  known  Robert  Hall  as  we  have, 
who  knew  him  when  a  mother  and  a  sister  remained 
to  share  his  life,  could  ever  accuse  him  of  lacking  af- 
fection. The  love  he  lavished  upon  them  was  the 
deepest,  tenderest,  and  most  unselfish  I  ever  saw. 
You  certainly  wrong  him  sadly." 

"You  interested,  too?"  queried  Jerold.  "Robert 
ought  to  be  here.  If  this  array  of  championing 
beauty  didn't  melt  him,  he  must  be  stone  itself." 

"  And  his  goodness !"  said  Marcia.  "  What  would 
the  poor  and  unfortunate  of  Colusa  do  without  his 


70  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

wealth  ?  Yet  he  gives  so  quietly  that  one-half  the  good 
he  does  is  never  known.  I  just  tell  you  Robert  Hall 
is  good  enough  for  this  family,  and  he  can  take  his 
pick." 

"With  a  reservation,"  observed  Jerold,  smiling  to- 
wards Ellen;  but  the  color  had  left  her  face,  and  a 
strange,  evasive  look  appeared  in  her  earnest  eyes. 

"He  can  have  me,  anyway,  sure,"  said  Ada;  "I 
told  him  so." 

"  That  was  frank  enough,  at  least,"  remarked  Jerold. 
"Did  he  accept?" 

"He  said  he  thought  I  was  a  trifle  too  old  and 
sombre  to  fill  his  need." 

"Well,  he  was  right  for  once.  You  are  too  morose 
to  match  with  such  a  lively  young  fellow  as  he  is." 
With  which  parting  shaft  he  withdrew,  and  left  them 
to  discuss  at  their  leisure  the  episode  that  had  occa- 
sioned his  call. 


CHAPTER    IX. 


ROBERT  HALL. 


It  was  Sunday,  one  of  the  clear,  balmy  days  of 
early  autumn.  The  sun  was  out  rich  and  warm,  and 
in  its  transmuting  rays  the  rugged  landscape  was 
almost  glorified.  It  seemed  so,  at  least,  to  the  beauty- 
loving  spirit  of  Ellen  Wayburn,  as,  in  quiet  revery,  she 
sauntered  along  down  towards  the  little  creek.  She 
was  enjoying  the  play  of  the  sunlight  upon  the  moun- 
tain-sides and  the  gleam,  as  of  uncounted  diamonds, 
upon  the  snowy  peaks  above.  Gazing  up  at  the  frozen 
summits,  she  seemed  to  feel  more  by  contrast  the  deep 
luxuriance  of  the  autumn  day,  and  she  opened  her 
whole  being  to  its  sweet  influence.  The  air  was  lush, 
a  sort  of  dreaminess  pervaded  everything,  and  she  felt 
in  harmony  with  the  hour  and  all  nature  around  her. 

She  was  musing,  as  she  strolled  along,  upon  her  life, 
— the  past  that  was  gone,  and  the  unknown  future  be- 
fore her.  How  dreary  it  seemed  to  look  back  to  the 
time  when,  a  young  girl  scarcely  eighteen,  she  had  taken 
up  her  burden  and  gone  to  teach  those  rough,  rebel- 
lious mining  children !     It  had  been  a  school  for  her 

71 


72  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

as  well  as  for  her  pupils :  the  constant  tax  upon  her 
patience,  the  call  for  self-command  and  self-suppres- 
sion,— these  had  been  her  discipline.  How  often  her 
heart  had  quailed  before  the  issue  with  some  insubor- 
dinate boy,  or  hope  had  forsaken  her  over  some  stupid 
girl !  Kebellion,  hot  and  fierce,  had  been  in  her  soul 
for  days  together ;  but,  little  by  little,  she  had  crushed 
it  out  and  brought  herself  to  submission. 

Then  how  the  days  seemed  to  take  on  a  brighter 
tint  and  the  old  duties  to  grow  less  galling  since  Jerold 
had  come, — Jerold,  to  whom  her  heart  had  cleaved  from 
the  very  hour  of  their  meeting !  How  her  spirit  had 
gone  out  to  blend  with  his  in  the  rapture  of  the  first 
confession !  How  her  life  had  been  redeemed  in  the 
strength  of  that  pure,  deep  love !  He  had  come  fresh 
with  the  dews  of  his  college  days  about  him,  and  had 
stolen  her  heart  away  with  his  cheery  laugh  and 
boyish  happiness. 

Jerold  was  more  than  the  men  about  him.  She 
was  proud  of  that.  He  had  received  the  benefits  of  a 
liberal  education  and  had  come  here  backed  by  influ- 
ence. This  it  was  that  brought  him  his  position  as 
manager  at  the  silver  mill,  and  he  filled  it  ably;  she 
was  proud  of  that  also. 

He  had  seen  the  fine  manners  and  stately  ladies  of 
older  civilizations,  and  yet  he  had  chosen  her,  her  the 
simple  school-teacher,  and  had  waited  now  these  three 


ROBERT  HALL.  73 

years  uutil  she  should  be  free.  Who  could  be  so  noble, 
so  brave  and  unselfish,  as  her  Jerold  ? 

And  what  a  happy  home  they  would  have  together 
some  day,  Jerold  and  she !  They  had  picked  out  the 
spot,  and  he  had  even  bought  the  ground  already.  It 
stood  high  up  on  the  hill  and  overlooked  the  town, 
the  valley,  and  the  whole  range^  of  magnificent  moun- 
tains. They  had  drawn  plans  of  the  little  cottage 
many  times ;  she  had  furnished  every  room  over  and 
over  again,  and  had  a  hundred  little  devices  for  orna- 
menting them.  Every  detail  of  that  prospective  home 
was  dear  to  her,  and  within  was  an  abiding  gratitude 
for  the  good  that  was  in  store. 

To  a  woman  of  her  character  love  was  the  summing 
up  of  all  things,  and  into  her  love  for  Jerold  she  threw 
the  nobility,  the  enthusiasm,  and  the  trust  of  her  na- 
ture. She  idealized  him.  She  looked  into  his  dark 
eyes  and  saw  deep  down  in  his  soul  all  the  elements  of 
her  perfect  man,  for  to  her  he  was  faultless. 

They  differed  sometimes  in  their  views,  but  it  was 
more  difference  in  expression,  she  fancied,  than  in 
thought,  in  shadow  than  in  substance.  They  were  one 
in  spirit,  in  sympathy  for  the  right,  and  for  a  high 
mission  of  life.  She  had  thrown  over  him  the  pure 
white  lustre  of  her  own  soul  and  saw  in  the  light 
something  native  to  him.  Is  it  not  a  necessity  of 
love  to  thus  reflect  itself?     If  she  was  blind  she  was 


74  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

happy,  and  happiness  is  sometimes  better  than  knowl- 
edge. 

Full  of  her  thoughts  and  sweet  meditations,  she 
wandered  along;  the  peace  of  the  day  in  the  air  and 
in  the  scene  about,  and  the  peace  of  the  day  in  her  own 
pure  heart. 

She  heard  the  sound  of  approaching  wheels,  but  she 
did  not  turn.  The  horses  passed  close  beside  her, 
when  they  were  checked  up  short  and  a  pleasant  voice 
addressed  her. 

"  Come  and  try  ray  new  horses,  Ellen." 

She  looked  around  suddenly.  As  she  recognized 
the  speaker,  she  hesitated,  then  recovered  herself,  and 
answered,  frankly, — 

"  Yes,  indeed,  with  pleasure."  And  in  a  moment 
they  were  speeding  across  the  country  behind  the 
spirited  bays. 

"  It  seems  to  me  you  indulge  in  rather  lively  horses, 
Robert,"  said  Ellen,  fastening  tighter  the  strings  of 
her  simple  bonnet. 

"  Yes,  horses  is  my  one  luxury ;  I  keep  'em  for 
companions.  You  can't  tell  the  company  a  man  gets 
out  of  a  horse ;  they're  like  human  beings ; — better'n 
most  men  a  long  ways." 

"Rather  dumb  companionship,  though,  isn't  it?" 

"  That's  how  you  look  at  it.  Horseback's  my  way 
of  goin'.     If  you're  on  a  horse,  he  feels  your  mood  and 


ROBERT  HALL.  75 

falls  right  in  with  it.  If  you^re  light-hearted,  he'll 
canter  along  quiet  and  peaceful ;  but  if  you're  fierce 
lie  knows  it,  too, — pricks  up  his  ears,  holds  his  head 
high,  and  tears  away  till  the  madness  's  knocked  out  of 
man  and  beast  together." 

"  That's  a  new  use  for  the  noble  steed.  '  The  horse 
the  restorer  of  man's  equanimity,' — ^how  would  that  do 
for  a  text?" 

He  looked  at  her  askance  to  assure  himself  no  covert 
ridicule  lurked  in  her  words,  though  the  moment  he 
did  so  he  turned  away,  ashamed  of  his  suspicion,  and 
said,  seriously, — which  was  due  rather  to  the  nature  of 
the  man  than  to  any  special  graveness  in  the  subject, — 

"Your  equanimity,  I  s'pose,  never  needs  restorin', 
but  the  rest  of  us  ain't  built  so." 

"  My  equanimity  ?  I  was  just  thinking,  before  you 
drove  up,  of  the  hard  struggle  I'd  had  through  all 
these  years  to  get  my  will  under  training.  I  must  have 
had  a  very  wicked  nature  to  start  with  if  I  needed  all 
this  discipline." 

"  Do  you  like  school-teach  in'  ?"  he  asked,  abruptly, 
turning  and  looking  in  her  face. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  with  decision.  "No;  I  hate 
it,  but '  tell  it  not  in  Gath.'  You  know  it's  treason  for 
a  teacher  to  work  for  anything  but  love,  and  I  hate  it." 

"Well,  now  jest  you  holler  out  loud  to  these  hills 
an'  tell  'em  so.     I  know  how  things  will  boil  inside 


76  A   BLIND  LEAD. 

sometimes,  an'  it  does  a  body  good  to  shout  'em 
out." 

Ellen  laughed  aloud  at  the  proposed  relief.  "  Yes, 
I  have  felt  that  boiling  inside,  now  you  speak  of  it,  and 
longed  to  let  off  a  little  steam.'' 

"  My  horseback-ridin'  does  that  very  thing.  Some 
take  the  fire  out  of  'em  in  liquor,  an'  some  in  a  fight, 
an'  some  in  wand'rin'  off  alone  an'  broodin' ;  I  take 
mine  out  in  horses,  an'  I  want  'em  fiery.  Just  you  try 
hollerin'  out." 

"  I've  as  much  as  I  can  do  now  holding  in.  These 
bays  are  pretty  frisky," 

"  I'm  forgettin'  you,"  he  said,  contritely.  "  I  most 
never  have  a  lady  with  me,  an'  when  I  do  I  don't 
know  how  to  take  care  of  'em.  You  always  was  a 
little  timid  thing." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  with  her  light  low  laugh, 
"  I'm  considerable  of  a  coward  yet,  if  you  must  have 
confessions  and " 

"  I  didn't  say  coward.  I  know  better  than  that,  a 
pile  better  than  that.     I  said  timid." 

He  drew  the  light  robe  over  her  and  tucked  it  in 
carefully  to  shield  her  from  any  dust.  Then  he  stopped 
the  horses  and  let  down  the  top,  so  that  she  might  have 
a  better  view.     "  Now  I'll  put  'em  to  a  steady  trot." 

"So  they  think  you'd  ought  to  love  teachin',  do 
they?"  he  said,  after  a  pause. 


ROBERT  HALL.  77 

'*  Yes,  and  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  why,  either/'  she 
answered.  "  Take  the  young  men  working  in  offices 
day  after  day  and  year  after  year, — do  their  employers 
ever  require  that  their  hearts  shall  be  wedded  to  their 
drudgery?" 

"There  ain't  much  sent'ment  wasted  in  business. 
No  work's  pleasant,"  he  answered,  in  the  measured 
monotone  of  his  deep  bass  voice. 

"  And  yet  there  is,  I  believe,  for  each  a  work  so  con- 
genial that  it  ceases  to  be  work  and  becomes  pleasure." 

"  I  never  struck  it." 

"  No ;  very  few,  I  fancy,  do  strike  it,"  she  replied, 
thoughtfully.  "Our  occupations  are  determined  by 
our  needs  and  circumstances  rather  than  by  congeni- 
ality ;  but  it  won't  always  be  so,"  she  added,  absently. 

He  looked  at  her  as  though  he  thought  her  jesting, 
but  her  face  was  serious. 

"No?  When  d' you  look  to  see  the  world  trans- 
formed?" A  touch  of  humor  sat  j)leasantly  on  his 
strong,  impassive  features. 

"  Hardly  soon,  I  fear.  Wisdom  is  of  slow  growth, 
and  till  it  is  matured  man  must  go  through  life  chained 
to  a  work  he  fights  against,  bearing  along  the  con- 
sciousness that  in  the  right  place  all  might  be  so  dif- 
ferent from  what  is.  This  unsuitableness  of  work  is, 
I  think,  almost  the  greatest  of  the  mysteries  and 
miseries  that  oppress  us." 

7* 


78  ^   BLIND  LEAD. 

He  did  not  offer  a  reply.  He  seemed  to  be  mentally 
weighing  the  observation  and  deciding  whether  or  not 
she  had  generalized  truly.  He  was  given  to  taking 
in  remarks  in  this  manner, — passing  them  before  the 
mirror  of  his  mind  and  dropping  the  subject  if  the 
reflection  there  was  at  all  distorted.  It  explained  the 
lapses  into  silence  that  were  so  common  with  him. 
Ellen's  observation  appeared  to  have  stood  the  test,  for 
he  said,  presently, — 

"  If  there's  somethin'  suited  to  ev'ry  man's  wants, 
why  can't  he  hunt  it  out  and  find  it?" 

"  Well,  for  a  great  many  reasons.  I  think,  though, 
our  method  of  education  has  much  of  the  blame  to 
bear." 

"  How's  that  now  ?"  he  asked,  with  interest. 
"  Well,  each  child  is  unlike  every  other,  and  each 
looks  out  upon  this  big  universe  with  different-toned 
faculties.  The  course  laid  down  in  schools  ministers 
to  what  these  minds  have  in  common,  but  gives  no 
growth  to  what  they  have  individually.  Now  this 
individuality,  it  seems  to  me,  must  be  the  first  and  the 
last  thought  in  a  true  education.  His  own  latent  gift 
must  be  the  child's  and  the  teacher's  constant  study. 
But  it  is  ignored  entirely,  and  the  child's  mind  is  gen- 
erally lield  up  to  him  as  such  a  stupid  little  possession 
that  he  is  half  ashamed  of  having  such  an  encumbrance 
at  all.     He  is  treated  as  nothing  but  an  embodied 


ROBERT  HALL.  79 

memory.  Every  energy  is  spent  upon  absorbing.  It 
is  knowledge, — knowledge  at  the  expense  of  power, — 
until  the  individuality  is  almost  entirely  lost." 

"And  how  does  that  bear  on  findin'  his  callin'?" 

"  Just  this  way.  The  field  of  work  nature  intended 
the  child  for  lies  rio;ht  alonoj  that  line  of  his  individ- 
uality.  There  is  waiting  the  one  thing  he  is  fitted  to 
do,  the  one  thing  he  will  be  happy  in  doing.  Find 
him  that,  and  you  will  have  a  man  in  harmony  with 
the  world,  with  himself,  and  with  God,  for  all  three 
are  drawing  in  the  same  direction.  That  man  will 
add  to  the  sum  of  good.  Put  him  anywhere  else  and 
you  see  the  result,  in  discontented,  distracted  men,  who 
toil  because  they  must,  and  upbraid  destiny ;  who  can 
never  bring  their  holes  to  fit  their  spirits,  or  their 
spirits  to  adjust  themselves  to  their  holes." 

"It's  a  pity,  if  that's  so,  that  things  can't  get 
straightened  out  a  little  down  here,"  said  Robert, 
thoughtfully. 

"  Things  will  bo  straightened  out  more  and  more  as 
the  world  gets  truer  ideas  of  mind-training.  How 
often  we  see  middle-aged  and  old  men  looking  back 
over  the  years,  recognizing  at  last  the  vocation  to 
which  nature  had  consecrated  them,  and  wondering 
that  all  the  way,  till  too  late,  they  had  somehow  missed 
it.  These  might  have  been  directed  in  childhood,  and 
that  is  why  I  hate  and  hate  this  teaching.     It  is  false 


80  A   BLIND  LEAD. 

to  the  plan  of  creation  and  false  to  the  child's  highest 
and  holiest  good ;  for  in  crushing  out  his  individuality 
it  robs  him  of  his  birthright." 

Eobert  remained  for  some  moments  intently  thinking, 
and  Ellen  let  her  eyes  wander  musingly  over  the  won- 
ders about  her.  Afar  through  the  rifted  crests  she 
could  see  where  the  glamourous  sky  had  stolen  down 
and  appropriated  the  beauties  of  the  earth.  There 
tliey  were,  misty  crags  and  phantom  peaks  pendulous 
among  the  clouds,  and  all  in  the  airy  unreality  of  a 
dream.  The  nearer  mountains  too  had  something  of 
phantasy  in  their  illusive  shimmer ;  but  the  corrugated 
granite  walls  before  her,  they  were  real,  living  things, 
that  seemed  writhing  and  straining  their  distorted 
limbs  like  some  grim  Laocoon  in  agony.  Their 
wrinkled  front  met  and  tore  the  sunlight,  as  some  reef 
might  tear  the  breakers  beating  shoreward  from  the  sea. 

Why  did  she  glance  from  the  laboring  crags  to  the 
calm,  still  man  beside  her?  What  could  they  have  in 
common,  that  they  should  be  associated  in  her  mind  ? 
Robert  was  still  thinking,  unconscious  that  he  was 
linked  with  Ellen's  reflections.  He  was  oblivious  to 
her  scrutiny  as  he  raised  his  eyes  and  observed, 
quietly, — 

"  You  seem  to  have  a  reason  for  everything,  Ellen ; 
you  kind  of  open  up  a  new  country  to  me  when  you 
talk." 


ROBERT  HALL.  81 

"  And  your  generous  sympathy  leads  me  into  a  great 
deal  of  talking,  I  am  afraid.  I  don't  know  why  I 
speak  out  my  heart  with  you  as  I  cannot  with  any  one 
else." 

An  expression  part  pleasure,  part  pain,  came  into  his 
face,  that  self-centred  face  that  revealed  so  little. 

They  had  been  driving  along  a  road  hard  and  smooth, 
of  nature's  own  paving,  which  led  by  a  gradual  ascent 
up  to  the  divide  of  the  Rockies.  Standing  here,  the 
mind,  with  its  wondrous  reach  of  sight,  could  follow 
some  little  drop  trickling  down  the  rock,  through 
ravine  and  gulch,  in  brook  and  creek  and  river,  down 
to  where  the  Columbia  rolled  its  waters  to  the  sea  or 
the  mighty  Missouri  poured  its  flood  to  the  Gulf  and 
the  far-off  Atlantic.  Imagination,  too,  could  sweep 
over  the  vast  country  that  lay  below  and  catch  an 
echo  from  the  distant  cities. 

Here  on  the  very  summit  of  the  range,  in  the  midst 
of  crags  and  broken  heights,  in  some  unaccountable 
freak  had  been  set  a  park.  It  was  covered  every- 
where with  thick  bunch-grass,  whose  deep  yellow  made 
a  striking  contrast  with  the  blackened  granite  piles 
and  the  varied  hues  of  the  forest-clad  slopes.  Through 
the  ravines  danced  little  snow-fed  brooks,  whose  mar- 
gins were  fringed  with  willow  and  the  full-branched 
cottonwoods.  The  brooks  blended  at  last  into  a 
clear  stream,  which  crept  leisurely  through  the  plain, 
/ 


82  A   BLIND  LEAD. 

and  near  its  farther  limit  crossed  the  road.  Here 
the  level  dipped  suddenly,  and  the  mountains  that 
had  opened  to  receive  into  their  bosom  this  grassy 
prairie  closed  in  again. 

Down  through  the  narrowing  gap  and  past  the  en- 
trance to  the  boulder-canyon,  Nature,  as  if  to  assure 
herself  of  her  own  possibilities,  had  concentrated  her 
charms.  The  sparkling  stream  broke  in  a  succession 
of  cascades,  and  leaped  from  rock  to  rock;  and 
where  for  a  space  it  found  a  level  course  one  could 
watch  the  speckled  trout  asleep  above  the  pebbles. 

Off  from  the  canyon  here,  one  came  upon  delightful 
little  glades  where  the  sun  streamed  through  the  open 
branches  and  lay  warm  along  the  tufted  grass.  The 
bright  tints  of  the  autumn  leaves  and  the  dark  hues 
of  the  evergreens  were  rivalled  in  the  colors  of  the 
wild-flowers,  though  their  spring-time  brilliancy  had 
given  place  to  a  more  subdued  loveliness. 

As  they  reached  this  spot  the  young  man,  whose  knit 
brows  hinted  some  mental  debate,  stopped  the  horses 
and  turned  to  his  companion. 

'*  We're  to  the  end  of  the  park.  Wouldn't  you 
like  to  walk  'bout  a  bit?"  he  asked,  quietly. 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  would,"  she  answered.  "It's  al- 
ways so  lovely  out  here." 

He  tied  the  horses,  assisted  her  to  alight,  and  to- 
gether they  passed  from  the  roadside. 


CHAPTER   X. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAIN  PARK. 


They  walked  along  up  a  pretty  glen  where  the 
sheltering  cliffs  gave  seclusion,  and  presently  they 
came  upon  a  little  scattered  grove,  a  sweet  romantic 
spot  full  of  shade  and  mystery.  A  pretty  stream- 
let rippled  down,  and  the  bank  that  sloped  away 
was  embedded  in  long  grass.  The  air  was  vocal  with 
chirping  squirrels,  drumming  woodpeckers,  chatter- 
ing magpies,  and  the  occasional  delicious  notes  of  the 
meadow-lark. 

The  subdued  glory  of  the  autumn  day,  the  pleasant 
shelter  of  the  leafy  bower,  and  the  rich  fragrance  of 
the  woods  combined  to  fill  every  sense  with  deep  de- 
light. 

Ellen^s  artist  soul  stood  still  to  drink  in  the  fresh- 
ness and  the  life  about  her.  Trees  and  grass,  flowers 
and  birds,  these  were  something  fancy  loved  to  dwell 
upon,  but,  alas !  they  could  not  be  part  of  her  daily 
life.  Twice  before  had  she  been  here,  driving  out  as 
now  with  Robert  Hall,  but  to-day  the  place  seemed 
enchanted,  and  shone  to  her  eyes  as  a  very  garden  of 

83 


34  A   BLIND  LEAD. 

paradise.  To  a  deeply  appreciative  character  like 
Ellen's  such  visions  are  always  full  of  a  mystic  pres- 
ence, and  now  amid  the  seen  she  was  communing  with 
the  unseen. 

They  walked  along,  each  occupied  with  his  own 
special  thoughts,  both  conscious  of  the  witchery  of  the 
scene  and  of  the  hour,  and  came  upon  a  nook  where 
a -stout  tree  spread  its  branches  invitingly  over  the 
soft  turf  beneath,  and  Ellen,  with  a  little  cry  of  ad- 
miration, ran  forward  and  seated  herself  to  feast  upon 
the  beauty. 

Robert  continued  a  moment  in  his  meditations,  then 
he  shook  himself,  as  if  casting  off  the  mood  that  had 
settled  over  him,  and  threw  himself  carelessly  down 
upon  the  grass  beside  her. 

Something,  tlie  contrast  perhaps  between  these 
surroundings  that  she  loved  and  the  sterile  camp  to 
which  her  life  was  linked,  awoke  in  Ellen  a  passing 
regret.  Would  time  ever  bring  to  her  what  she 
craved  ?  She  mused  aloud  in  that  epitome  of  simple 
hope  that  was  so  often  to  her  an  inspiration, — 

"  Behold,  we  know  not  anything ; 
I  can  but  trust  tliat  good  shall  fall 
At  last— far  off— at  last,  to  all, 
And  every  winter  change  to  spring." 

"Do  you  believe  that?"  Robert  asked,  looking  up, 
— "  that  good  '11  come  at  last  to  all  ?" 


IN  THE  MOUNTAIN  PARK.  85 

"  I  believe  firmly  that  every  legitimate  wish  of  our 
hearts  will  be  some  time,  some  way,  gratified,"  she 
replied. 

"  Ellen,  if  you'd  ever  had  a  real  sorrow  you'd  know 
better.  There's  things  happens  that's  so  entirely  wrong 
that  nothing  can  ever  right  'em." 

A  real  sorrow !  He  was  thinking,  she  supposed,  of 
the  early  loss  that  had  darkened  his  young  days  and 
left  him  solitary.  She  knew  the  history  of  that  loss, 
and  her  heart  went  out  to  him  in  pity. 

"  It  was  wrong  to  you,  perhaps,  Robert,"  she  said, 
in  gentle  comfort,  "  but  surely  not  to  them.  Don't  you 
remember  how  they  longed  to  go, — to  get  beyond  the 
trouble  into  peace?" 

His  brows  contracted  suddenly  in  an  involuntary 
spasm  of  pain,  and  he  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hands, 
as  though  it  had  grown  too  heavy  to  sustain  its  own 
weight.  The  immobility  had  left  his  face  now,  and  it 
was  instinct  with  feeling. 

She  saw  that  she  had  misinterpreted  him  and  had 
recalled  scenes  she  would  most  willingly  banish  from 
his  remembrance ;  but  it  was  too  late. 

"  Yes,  Ellen,  yes,"  he  faltered.  ''  I'd  forgot  there 
was  even  one  bit  of  light  in  that  blackness.  Th' 
suff'rin'  of  that  time !"  he  cried.  "  It  haunts  me  every- 
wheres.  It's  with  me  always.  Men  say  I'm  silent. 
Let  any  man   stand   by  and  watch  his  mother  dyin' 

8 


gg  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

an'  dyin'  afore  his  eyes,  an'  needin'  such  a  little — 
Don't  tell  me  she  died  of  age ;  'twas  want,  Ellen,  want ! 
An'  I  looked  on  !  Why  didn't  I  steal  for  her  ?  Kill 
for  her  ?"  And  with  fierce  energy  he  rose  and  paced 
the  ground. 

"  You  did  better,  far  better,  Robert.  You  worked 
for  her." 

"Worked?  Yes,  a  boy's  work  in  a  new  camp, 
with  cabin-rent  at  forty  dollars  and  flour  at  ten  a  sack. 
She  would  pay  off  that  mor'gage  on  the  mine,  and  we 
went  without  to  scratch  it  together.  My  mother,  my 
poor  mother !" 

He  threw  himself  upon  the  ground  again  and  turned 
his  face  away  a  moment  to  control  his  emotion,  but  his 
mind  was  not  to  be  diverted.  "  And  Ruth,"  he  con- 
tinued, speaking  more  calmly.  "  Our  poverty  was  like 
th'  smelter-smoke,  an'  her  a  weak  little  flower  anyway. 
Slie  faded  an'  faded.  Then  we  struck  it  in  th'  mine 
and  was  rich,  but  it  was  too  late ;  Ruth  was  dyin'  too, 
Ruth  was  dyin'  too.  Do  you  wonder  when  I  think  of 
it,  in  my  misery  I  curse  th'  mine  ?  Yes,  I  curse  th ' 
mine  an'  th'  money." 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  his  strong  frame  shook 
with  the  violence  of  his  emotions.  She  could  see  the 
powerful  chest  rising  and  falling  with  his  labored 
breath,  and  knew  the  strength  of  the  memories  that 
after  so  many  years  could  still  move  him  thus.     He 


IN  THE  MOUNTAIN  PARK.  87 

was  living  over  the  sufferings  and  privations  of  those 
early  days  in  the  mining-camp.  His  grief  and  his 
memories  were  sacred  to  Ellen.  She  did  not  seek  to 
intrude  upon  them.  She  only  rested  her  hand  gently 
down  upon  his  to  remind  him  of  her  close  sympathy. 

The  light  touch  roused  and  thrilled  him,  and  a 
tremor  passed  visibly  over  him. 

He  clasped  in  both  of  his  her  delicate  hand,  and  his 
eyes  as  he  raised  them  to  hers  were  very  tender. 

"  And  yet,  I  wouldn't  give  it  up, — my  money,"  he 
said,  in  a  voice  grown  strangely  soft.  "  There's  still 
somethin'  I'm  livin'  on  for, — a  life  dearer  to  me  than 
ever  was  even  my  mother  and  Ruth." 

"Do  not,  Robert,  do  not,"  she  said,  imploringly; 
"  not  for  the  world  would  I  add  to  your  sorrow." 

"  I  must  speak  out  now,  Ellen.  You  silenced  me 
before,  when  I  come  to  offer  you  my  new-got  wealth. 
I  came  then  in  hope  an'  in  joy, — yes,  joy,  even  with 
my  two  graves  jest  dug.  I  come  now  in  despair,  but 
I  must  be  heard  out." 

"  I  know  it  all,  Robert ;  do  not  speak."  The  tears 
were  in  her  eyes,  and  her  lips  trembled,  but  he  went  on  : 

"  Years  ago,  when  we  was  all  happy  back  in  the 
old  homestead,  before  your  father  and  mine  come  to 
try  their  luck  in  this  camp,  we  childern  used  to  play 
t'gether.  I  was  courtin'  you  then,  dear,  and  you 
promised   when   we    growed    up  you'd   be   my  wife. 


88  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

That  hope  sunk  into  my  soul, — ih'  one  stay  in  sorrow, 
th'  one  tie  that  held  me  t'  livin',  when  them  that  I 
loved  was  gone.  After  all  the  bitterness  of  my  life 
and  the  long  patient  years  IVe  waited,  give  me  one 
joy,  Ellen,  love, — one  t'  live  on  for.'* 

But  she  was  dumb.  Helplessly  her  head  sank  upon 
her  bosom,  and  for  a  moment  she  felt  an  undefined 
terror  of  this  silent,  gloomy  man,  whose  pent-up  feel- 
ings had  burst  their  bonds  and  were  pouring  forth  in 
this  torrent  of  language. 

"  Ellen,"  he  went  on,  impetuously,  "  I  know  how 
much  'bove  me  you  are.  I  never  had  no  chance  t' 
make  myself  anybody, — no  education,  no  refinement, — ■ 
nothing  an'  nothing ;  but  only  try  me.  V\\  do  any- 
thing, be  anything.  No  man  can  bear  for  you  nor  no 
man  can  try  for  you  what  I  will.  Your  heart's  free. 
Why,  in  time,  if  I  was  so  good  t'  you,  shouldn't  you 
come  to  care  for  me  a  little, — even  a  little  ?" 

She  raised  her  eyes,  dim  with  the  misery  of  her  en- 
forced cruelty,  and  looked  into  the  hungry,  pleading 
face  of  the  man,  so  true,  so  loyal,  so  unselfish. 

"  Robert," — but  the  voice  died  away  and  the  words 
were  unspoken, 

"  Tell  me,  Ellen,  my  love, — tell  me  that  some  day 
you'll  be  mine.  Some  day,  no  matter  when.  I'll 
wait  my  life  out,  only  say  at  last  you'll  be  my 
wife." 


IN  THE  MOUNTAIN  PARK.  89 

Twice  she  strove  to  answer,  but  could  not.  At  last, 
with  a  strong  effort,  she  mastered  herself,  and,  bending 
close,  she  whispered,  so  low  it  seemed  as  if  some  pass- 
ing spirit  had  stooped  and  whispered  it  instead, — 

"  I  cannot,  Robert,  I  cannot !  Haven't  you  known? 
— I  love — another." 

A  gleam  as  of  lightnings  flashed  in  his  eyes  a 
moment,  then  they  became  hard  and  set.  He  had 
half  raised  himself  in  the  eagerness  of  his  entreaty, 
but  now  he  sank  slowly  back,  and  his  head  fell  buried 
in  his  arm.  His  aspect  was  that  of  one  stunned,  and 
no  sign  revealed  that  he  was  conscious.  He  lay  be- 
fore her  there,  -silent  and  motionless,  and  she  gazed 
down  mute  at  what  she  had  wrought.  She  thought 
he  was  insensible,  he  lay  so  still.  "Better  oblivion 
than  consciousness  to  such  as  he,"  she  said  in  her 
heart,  and  left  him  to  his  peace. 

He  lay  so  long  she  began  to  fear  for  him,  and,  draw- 
ing close,  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  head.  A  shud- 
der passed  over  him  at  the  touch.  Slowly  he  turned 
and  raised  his  eyes  to  hers,  and  in  them  was  a  look  so 
broken  she  knew  that  he  had  lived  a  lifetime  in  those 
moments. 

"Let  us  go,"  he  said,  rising  dazedly  and  moving 
forward. 

"No,  no!  not  yet,"  she  answered,  eagerly.  "Sit 
here  beside  me.     Forgive  me,  Robert,  my  friend,  my 

8* 


90  A  BLIND  LEAD, 

truest  friend, — oh !  forgive  me  for  the  sorrow  I  have 
brought  upon  you,  and  let  me  comfort  you/' 

"I'm  past  comfort  now,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that 
she  scarcely  recognized. 

"Yes,  Robert;  but  somewhere  it  will  be  made 
right." 

He  looked  at  her  vacantly,  as  though  trying  to 
grasp  her  meaning, 

"What?" 

"Yes,  surely,  some  time,  somewhere,  your  heart's 
cry  will  be  answered  and  your  love  satisfied." 

"  I  can't  understand  you ;  I  don't  know  what  you 
are  saying,"  he  answered,  blankly.  "Come,  now, 
come;  I  must  go  back." 

As  in  a  trance  he  moved  forward  and  made  his 
way  to  the  carriage.  Then  he  helped  her  in  and 
tightly  grasped  the  lines.  The  horses  struck  wildly 
out;  but  mechanically  he  held  them  back,  as  they 
sj:)eeded  impatiently  the  long  way  home.  Not  a  word 
passed  his  lips.  When,  in  the  gloom  of  the  evening, 
they  reached  the  gate,  he  helped  her  to  alight,  but  the 
hand  he  extended  was  very  cold.  Then  silently  he 
took  up  the  lines  again  and  drove  on  into  the  camp. 


CHAPTER  XL 


THE  PROSPECT. 


The  winter  bad  come  to  Colusa  and  gone  again, — a 
simple  record  that  of  time,  a  blank,  a  void  till  events 
are  set  to  fill  the  spaces. 

To  strangers  following  the  range  of  the  thermometer 
it  might  have  seemed  that  Montana  was  having  a 
severe  winter,  but  had  the  stranger  been  present  and 
suggested  the  idea,  he  would  probably  have  found  the 
citizens  to  a  man  insisting  that  the  climate  was  equal 
to  any  upon  the  globe.  It  was  pure  and  bracing, — 
very  bracing  indeed.  Had  any  one  arraigned  the 
winters,  the  Montanian  would  have  proceeded  'to  con- 
trast the  Territory  with  the  earthquake-smitten  East,  or 
the  cyclone-haunted  interior,  or  dared  him  to  compare 
it  to  the  rain-soaked  Northwest.  He  might  even  have 
gone  to  the  extent  of  including  California,  whose  cli- 
mate, he  would  say,  was  not  at  all  what  enthusiasts 
had  represented  it,  but  hot,  dry,  and  dusty.  Reflections 
upon  the  country  are  apt  to  be  construed  into  reflec- 
tions upon  the  people,  and  the  Westerner  is  a  little 
delicate  upon  personal  matters. 

91 


92  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

Among  themselves,  however,  they  had  execrated  this 

same  climate  and  pronounced  the  weather  " tough." 

Reports  were  beginning  to  come  in  now  of  losses 
among  the  cattle  on  the  great  ranges  off  to  the  north- 
east, and  these  were  indisputable  registers. 

The  rigor  of  the  winter  was  not  due  to  the  degree 
of  cold,  though  the  thermometer  stood  at  twenty  below 
for  weeks  together,  and  even  dropped  to  forty  at  times 
to  break  the  monotony.  For,  as  a  rule,  during  these 
intervals  there  was  no  wind ;  only  a  clear,  crisp  cold, 
that  seemed  to  throb  upon  the  still  air  in  ever-freezing 
pulse-beats.  The  Jarge  red  sun,  riding  up,  shot  its 
tardy  beams  along  the  crusted  mountain  slopes,  but 
they  glanced  off,  powerless  to  pierce  the  icy  film.  The 
whole  landscape  seemed  holding  its  breath  in  the  ten- 
sion of  the  cold.  Then  this  mood  of  frozen  stillness 
would  pass  off  and  the  snow  come  falling  noiselessly, 
but  so  thick  the  encircling  world  of  peaks  was  blotted 
out,  and  the  camp  stood  on  the  rim  of  a  dense  nebulous 
universe.  The  wind  now  rose  with  its  fitful  humor 
and  swept  the  snow  into  huge  drifts  packed  knee- 
deep, — great  boulders  and  ledges  of  snow ;  as  if  those 
rocky  masses  above  in  the  disguise  of  their  white 
mantles  had  8li])ped  down  and  were  prowling  about 
on  secret  errands, — restless  vagrants  these,  ever  shifting 
to  some  new  and  unexpected  station. 

After  such  storms  it  became  a  serious  matter  to  force 


THE  PROSPECT.  93 

a  way  from  the  camp  to  the  outlying  mines.  The 
large  works  were  accessible  by  stages,  for  money  can 
overcome  difficulties  greater  than  those  of  transporta- 
tion, but  the  isolated  miners  had  no  alternative  but  to 
break  a  path  on  foot. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  season  most  of  these  inde- 
pendent workers  had  abandoned  their  claims  tempo- 
rarily and  hired  out  at  the  larger  mines;  but  some 
brave  souls  still  faced  the  worst  and  fought  the  terrors 
of  the  winter.  Of  these  was  John  Howard.  Any 
morning  his  tall,  lean  form  might  be  seen  ploughing 
its  way  through  the  drifts  to  the  Eucher,  a  dogged 
purpose  in  his  face  that  defied  physical  evil.  Others 
might  falter,  they  were  privileged,  but  this  wrestling 
with  fate,  was  it  not  the  price  every  true  man  was 
ready  to  pay  for  the  treasures  of  home  and  wife  and 
children  ? 

Times  there  were,  not  a  few,  when  John  Howard 
needed  all  his  strength,  moral  and  physical,  to  uphold 
him.  The  test  came,  not  when  the  dead  cold  settled 
down  and  the  snow  lay  in  ridges  upon  the  ground, 
but  when  the  sudden  blizzard  broke  like  a  whirlwind 
sweeping  down  the  mountain-sides.  It  cut  the  face 
like  needles  and  burned  like  living  fire.  It  swept 
the  snow  as  dust  before  it,  piled  up  hills  in  the 
valleys,  and  changed  the  very  features  of  the  country. 
Out  in  it  a  man  was  at  the  mercy  of  chance,  for  he 


94  A    "BLIND  LEAD. 

could  not  penetrate  its  density  a  foot.  It  blinded,  and 
at  the  same  time  it  swept  away  all  traces  of  the  trail, 
and  more  than  one  fated  miner  wandering  about  in  the 
mazes  of  the  storm  lay  down  and  froze  within  hail  of 
his  own  cabin. 

Yet  the  winter  had  much  to  redeem  it.  After  one 
of  these  intervals  of  cold  and  storm  the  Chinook  with 
its  hot  breath  came  blowing  in,  and  the  snow  was  gone 
as  by  magic.  The  thermometer  in  a  few  hours  crept 
up  even  into  the  sixties.  The  drifts  were  flowing 
streams,  and  the  aspect  of  Nature  was  that  of  one 
laughing  at  the  surprise  she  had  occasioned. 

Now,  however,  the  winter  was  gone.  Again  men 
were  shouldering  pick  and  shovel  and  starting  upon 
prospecting  tours  through  the  neighborhood, — Ameri- 
cans these,  for  the  Cornish  men  and  other  foreigners 
are  mostly  content  the  year  round  with  wages,  but 
with  the  coming  of  spring  the  native  miner  gets  out 
his  tools  and  starts  off  again  to  seek  his  independent 
fortune. 

On  one  of  these  spring  evenings  John  Howard  had 
returned  late  and  was  seated  at  supper  in  his  simple 
cabin.  Elizabeth  had  set  everything  within  reach  and 
had  drawn  up  a  chair  at  the  other  side  of  the  table  for 
company.  As  she  sat  watching  her  husband,  her  mind 
seemed  a  little  troubled  about  something,  for  she  re- 
marked, anxiously, — 


THE  PROSPECT.  95 

"Stop  in  at  tli'  drug-store  on  yer  way  home 
t*-morrer,  John,  an'  git  southing  fer  thet  cough.  I 
don't  like  it  haugin'  on  so." 

"  Pooh  !  thet  little  cough  ain't  nothin',"  he  answered, 
carelessly.  "  Ye're  too  tender  o'  me,  woman.  Besides, 
'tain't  much  use  payin'  fer  med'cines  an'  standin'  in  the 
water  all  day.  It's  the  gittin'  wet  an'  standin'  in  the 
chill  histin' ;  thet's  what's  lieepin'  on  th'  cough.  But 
Lord !  thet's  nothin',  nothin'  at  all." 

"  I  hope  'tain't.  I  shouldn't  like  it  'ud  git  a  grip 
enter  ye.     How's  the  water, — bad  ?" 

"Wal,  ruther.  It's  gainin'  on  us  some.  Didn't 
think  ter  see  so  much  seepiu'  in  no  way.  Ye  see  by 
th'  time  we've  histed  fer  three  hours  the  morn'in's 
pretty  wal  along.  Our  freshness  goes  inter  the  water; 
there's  eighty  foot  lift,  ye  know.  Thet's  why  we  git 
ahead  so  slow." 

"  Yes,  'tis  discour'gin',"  she  said,  with  sympathy. 

"  But  then  I  ain't  discour'ged ;  not  a  bit,  Liz'bith. 
It's  hard  sinkin*  an'  the  work  don't  count  fer  much  es 
it  orter,  but  the  rock's  thar,  better'n  better  right  straight 
'long,  an'  we'll  fetch  her  yet." 

The  miner's  faith,  like  his  courage,  was  not  to  be 
shaken,  and,  as  all  deep  convictions,  it  had  a  way  of 
insinuating  itself  into  other  minds  with  much  of  its 
native  force. 

"I  hope  so.     I  hope  it  '11  be  comin'  soon,"  Eliza- 


96  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

betli  said,  drawing  a  little  sigh.  "We  thought  fust 
by  winter  we'd  be  out  uv  our  pinch,  an'  here  it's  spring 
now  an*  th'  ore  ain't  half  covered  'spenses." 

"  Thet's  true,  wife/'  His  tone  was  a  trifle  irritated. 
"  We'd  a  been  down  on  her  long  'go  ef  this  water  hedn't 
troubled  so.  It's  been  fightin'  it  ev'ry  step.  Some- 
times when  we  clum  out  to  the  win'lass  the  clothes  on 
us  'ud  freeze  in  th'  cold  though  we  war  covered  in, 
an'  us  so  stiff  ourselves  we  could  scarce  push  the  car  t' 
the  dump.  It's  been  a  hard  winter,  a  hard  winter  an' 
no  disputin'." 

"  Ye'd  better  a  quit  in  th'  fall,  hedn't  ye?"  asked 
Elizabeth,  in  mild  reproof. 

"  No,  I  hedn't ;  not  a  bit  uv  it."  The  voice  was 
very  positive.  "  I  wouldn't  sell  my  half  uv  thet  Eucher 
fer  ten  hull  thousand.  Ev'ry  assay's  richer'n  th'  last 
one, — an'  the  weather's  comin'  fine  now,"  he  added, 
"  so  we  don't  mind  changin'  from  th'  shaft  t'  out-doors." 

Elizabeth  felt  that  her  implied  doubt  had  ruffled 
the  miner's  temper,  so,  woman-like,  she  leaned  over 
and  refilled  his  cup  as  a  propitiation.  The  tea  ap- 
peared to  have  a  soothing  influence,  for  he  remarked,  in 
a  mollified  voice, — 

"  Hall  come  down  yesterday  an'  tuk  a  look  'roun'." 

"  Indeed  !  did  he?"  eagerly.     "  What  did  he  say?" 

"  Said  th'  ore  looked  wal ;  thought  we  hed  a  good 
prosj)ect.     Man,  but  he's  a  strong  un  !     See  him  wind 


THE  PROSPECT.  97 

up  thct  bucket  with  one  hand  ye'd  a  thought  it  war 
empty.     He  served  his  own  time  at  th'  winMass,  too." 

Elizabeth  was  about  to  make  a  remark,  but  suddenly 
she  paused  and  passed  the  bread  instead.  Perhaps  the 
miner's  temper  needed  further  strengthening  before  she 
ventured  another  charge  upon  it.  She  waited  till  he- 
had  buttered  his  slice  and  was  incapacitated  for  speecli, 
when  she  said,  without  raising  her  eyes,  — 

"  I  wish  he'd  buy  ye  out,  John." 

He  choked  a  little  in  his  frantic  haste  to  reply. 
"  Wal,  I  don't,  then,"  he  thundered.  "  Thet's  the  way 
o'  't ;  we  poor  cusses  enters  a  claim,  puts  in  our  work 
an'  opens  her  up  ;  then  when  th'  ore's  in  sight  an'  we're 
bust  through  developin',  'long  comes  one  uv  them  'ar 
money  fellers,  buys  it  up  fer  a  song  an'  git's  all  th' 
profits.  I've  spent  my  time  an'  I'm  broke,  an'  wus  too 
fer  debts,  an'  now  I'll  tie  to  it." 

"  But,  John,  a  little  money  in  hand  'ud  be  a  big  lift 
t'  us.     Think  uv  the  winter  ye've  put  in." 

"  It's  thinkin'  uv  thet  makes  me  dead  sot  ter  holdin' 
out.  I've  done  the  sowin'  an'  I'll  do  the  gatherin'. 
Why  should  I  sell  out  t'  him  now  fer  a  few  thousand 
Avhen  in  a  month  I  might  git  es  many  hundred  thou- 
sand? 'Tain't  sense.  Besides,"  he  continued,  more 
moderately,  "  he  didn't  offer  t'  buy ;  he  jest  come  down 
to  look  'roun'  an'  see  Magee." 

"  Still,  I  can't  help  wishin'  he'd  made  ye  an  offer," 

E         or  9 


98  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

she  persisted,  gently.  "Tbey^*e  beginnin'  t'  hint 
money  down  to  the  store,  an'  I'd  like  dreadful  wal  we 
could  pay  'em  up." 

"  So  we  shall,  Liz'bith,  so  we  shall  right  soon.  I'll  stop 
in  thar  an'  tell  'em  it's  a-comin'  shortly ;  an'  ye  mustn't 
worry.     Lord  !  what's  a  month  arter  sech  a  winter  ?" 

Truly,  what  was  a  month  after  such  a  winter  ? 

"  Ef  we  was  cert'n  we'd  hev  it  in  a  month,"  the 
wife  reflected. 

"  We'd  hev  it  in  half  thet  time  now  ef  th'  water  'ud 
hold  off;  thet's  th'  scratch.  We  can  work  a  good  bit 
yet  though  agin  thet.  We'll  hev  struck  th'  big  pay 
shute  long  'fore  th'  water  heads  us  off.  It  ain't  but 
twenty -five  feet  now  t'  whar  the  rich  ore  lay  in  th' 
Peerless.  We  could  hold  on  an'  stope  an'  git  out  a 
little  money,  but  we  think  we'd  like  to  keep  sinkin' 
tell  we  strike  it." 

He  applied  himself  to  his  supper  again,  and  Eliza- 
beth leaned  mechanically  upon  the  table  and  watched 
him.  She  could  hear  the  low  crunching  of  the  stamp- 
mill  ;  the  rattling  of  the  stage  and  the  strident  voice 
of  the  driver  uttering  his  weird  call  to  the  men  going 
up  for  the  night  shifts  in  the  mines.  But  it  all  seemed 
strange  and  distant  to  her  to-night,  so  alert  was  her 
mind  to  its  own  personal  concerns. 

"Ye  still  feel  sure  th'  ore's  thar,  d'ye,  John?"  she 
said,  raising  her  head  and  addressing  her  husband. 


THE  PROSPECT.  99 

He  laughed  a  short  gratified  laugh.  "  Sure  I  I  don't 
care  ef  'taiu't.  Let  it  keep  on  es  it's  been,  an  'fore 
we're  much  further  down  it's  bound  ter  be  all  we'll 
need  fer  th'  rest  uv  our  days.  Lord,  woman,"  he 
added,  with  a  cheery  smile,  "ye're  wus'n  Thomas  any 
day  on  doubtin'." 

"  Not  es  I  doubt  but  tb'  Eucher's  got  good  ore,"  she 
hastened  to  explain,  "  unly  can  we  hold  on  till  it's  got 
out?" 

"  We'll  hold  on  all  right,  Liz'bith.  Keep  up  heart 
a  bit  longer.  I'm  tired  now  an'  I  guess  I'll  turn  in, 
so's  ter  be  up  bright  an'  early.  I  must  look  in  at  th' 
childern  fust,  though.  I  hope  we'll  hev  Ada  home  too, 
soon,"  he  said,  as  they  leaned  together  over  the  chil- 
dren's bed.  ♦ 

"I'll  fetch  her  home  es  soon  es  we  can  do  what's 
right  by  her.  We  must  do  the  squar  thing  by  th' 
childern." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  fondly  both  the  pretty 
sleepers. 

"  There'll  be  'nother  little  head  lyin'  in  thar  'fore 
long,  Liz'bith,"  he  said,  affectionately. 

The  mother  blushed  and  turned  away. 

"  We'll  be  rich  'fore  the  next  comes,"  he  said,  assur- 
ingly.  "  I've  been  thinkin'  I'd  like  ter  buy  thet  Lynn 
place  down  th'  side  yer  mother's.  We'd  be  nice  an' 
comf'table  in  thar,  an  ye'd  hev  the  folks  fer  comp'ny. 


100  ^   BLIND  LEAD. 

Ther's  a  good  bit  o'  ground  Voun'  it  fer  th'  babies  to 
play  in,  an'  the  rooms  is  big  an'  sunny." 

"It  'ud  be  jest  ev'rything  we'd  want,"  she  said, 
clasping  his  arm  in  her  eagerness  and  her  face  radiant 
with  delight.  "So  near  the  home  folks,  too;  it  'ud. 
be  a  great  comfort." 

"  Ye'll  hev  it,  Liz'bith,  fust  go.  I'll  git  ye  all  settled 
in  it  nice  an'  comf'table  ricrht  soon  now." 

She  smiled  contentedly,  and  with  bright  visions  of  a 
pleasant  home  with  "  big  sunny  windows  and  a  bit  uv 
ground  fer  th'  babies,"  the  miner  and  his  faithful  wife 
retired  to  sleep  the  deep  sleep  of  the  weary. 


CHAPTER  XIL 


THE   "  SILVERLINE." 


One  of  the  attractive  features  of  Colusa  is  its  clubs. 
As  the  town  is  not  in  the  line  of  any  of  the  great  con- 
tinental highways,  it  is  not  visited  by  the  celebrities 
who  might  by  chance  drop  down  occasionally  were  it 
on  their  route;  nor  is  the  local  theatre  sufficient  in 
itself  to  allure  the  shining  lights  from  their  natural 
orbits.  The  bulk  of  the  population  is  composed  of 
simple,  rough,  honest  toilers,  who  are  content  with 
the  very  mediocre  in  amusement  as  in  everything 
else.  Tiie  more  discriminating  class  of  the  community, 
therefore,  is  thrown  upon  its  internal  resources  for 
diversion,  and  naturally  the  first  organization  was  the 
club, — it  was  one  of  the  necessities  of  existence.  The 
balls  and  the  parties,  indeed,  the  entertainments  of 
every  description,  are  projected  by  one  or  another  of 
these  circles. 

The  most  aristocratic  of  the  clubs,  "  the  club"  par 
excdUnce,  is  the  "  Silverline."  This  is  honored  by  the 
membership  of  the  substantial  men  of  the  place, — the 
merchauts,  the  capitalists,  and  the  gueat  mining  kings. 

9*  101 


102  •  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

Here,  as  in  everything  else,  the  democratic  quality  of 
the  camp  is  revealed,  for  many  are  members,  frequent 
its  halls  and  share  its  privileges,  whose  callings  would 
deny  them,  elsewhere,  access  to  a  club  of  such  preten- 
sions. Poor  book-keepers  and  clerks  scrape  together 
the  money  necessary  to  meet  its  dues  (which  are  by  no 
means  light),  and  enjoy  the  honors  of  its  connection. 
They  are  treated  in  no  way  other  than  courteously  by 
their  moneyed  superiors.  In  very  many  instances  they 
are  men  of  better  minds  and  cultivation,  who  are  ad- 
mitted on  the  basis  of  their  attainments,  as  others  on 
their  wealth,  their  record,  or  their  connections. 

On  Sunday  afternoons  the  club-rooms  are  a  rendez- 
vous for  numbers  of  its  devoted  members.  To  the 
laborers  (the  miners  and  their  immediate  directors), 
Sunday  as  a  day  of  rest  is  a  thing  unknown,  but  the 
other  classes  allow  themselves  generally  the  indulgence 
of  its  intermission.  It  seems  always,  however,  a  day 
"  hard  to  put  in,"  as  the  saying  is.  The  camp  boasts 
no  library  or  place  of  general  resort,  and  the  men  who 
are  without  homes  are  at  a  loss  to  dispose  of  them- 
selves. 

It  is  curious  to  note  in  this  assembly  of  unmarried 
men  tlie  interest  displayed  in  everything  pertaining  to 
the  households  and  the  families  of  the  camp;  home 
has  a  deeper  meaning  and  family  a  sweeter  significance 
than  where  numbers  have  made  them  more  common. 


THE  ''SILVERLINE.''  103 

Into  the  "Silverline"  one  afternoon  in  the  early 
spring  sauntered  a  group  of  young  men.  They  walked 
leisurely  about  through  the  rooms  taking  note  of 
those  present,  meeting  acquaintances  and  exchanging 
remarks.  Most  of  the  older  members  were  engaged 
in  reading  or  absorbed  in  cards,  and  the  atmosphere 
of  the  place  seemed  dull  and  uninteresting,  so  they 
drifted  together  again  and  gathered  in  a  knot  about 
one  of  the  windows.  Some  of  the  other  younger 
spirits,  drawn  by  the  affinity  of  years,  perhaps,  dropped 
their  cues  or  their  magazines  and  joined  the  group. 

"  What  a  stupid  day  Sunday  is  !"  observed  one,  in  a 
disgusted  tone.  "  I  slept  till  noon,  and  now  I  wish  I'd 
stayed  asleep  all  day.'' 

"Whatever  was  Sunday  made  for?"  inquired  a 
second. 

"  Blessed  if  I  know,  if  it  wasn't  to  sleep  on,"  replied 
the  somnolent  member. 

"  I  wish.  Jack,"  said  the  other,  turning  upon  him  in 
irritation,  "  you'd  go  to  bed  and  stay  there  long  enough 
to  get  your  sleep  out  for  once, — hanged  if  I  don't.  It 
makes  me  sleepy  to  hear  you  forever  talking  about  it." 

"Got  no  other  way  to  kill  time  in  this  forsaken 
spot."     The  tone  was  half  humorous,  half  doleful. 

"  Why  do  you  stay  in  Colusa,  then  ?  Why  don't 
you  get  out?"  impatiently. 

"  Stay  in  Colusa !     Guns  !     I  haven't  enough  to  get 


104  ^   BLIND  LEAD, 

out  of  it.  When  I  was  back  in  the  States  nothing 
would  do  but  I  must  try  my  luck  in  a  mining-camp. 
I  hadn't  anything,  and  somehow  the  chances  I  thought 
w^ere  waiting  around  haven't  chased  me  up  very  smart. 
Blamed  if  I  don't  expect  to  be  the  last  man  left  in 
Colusa,  because  I  want  to  get  out  so  bad." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  you  will,  Jack,  for  the  camp  '11  bust 
up  some  day  while  you're  asleep,  and  everybody  '11 
light  out  for  other  parts  and  leave  you  here." 

They  laughed  all  around  at  Jack's  expense,  and  with 
easy  good  nature  he  laughed  too.  "* 

"  Well,  I  know  one  that's  likely  to  keep  me  com- 
pany, unless  the  walking's  good,"  he  said,  shrewdly. 

"Who's  that?" 

"  That's  your  very  own  self,  Jo  Barrow.  Richley's 
down  to  eight  and  a  half  and  going  lower." 

"  Lord  !"  exclaimed  Barrow  in  surprise ;  then  added, 
angrily,  "  What  confounded  cheats  and  rascals  those 
mining  men  are!  Now  they  gave  out  that  the  drift 
had  struck  the  Juuebug  lead,  and  I  bought  when 
shares  were  sixty ;  put  in  the  three  hundred  dollars 
I'd  been  a  year  saving  up  and  went  without  an  over- 
coat all  winter.     Well,  I  am  scooped." 

"  That  you  are,  Jo,  and  I  gave  you  a  history  of  my 
luck  before  you  did  it,"  said  Cass ;  "  but  you  wouldn't 
be  advised." 

"Advice   to   thunder!     Because  you   lost   was   no 


THE  '' silverline:'  105 

reason  I'd  got  to.  I'd  have  doubled  my  money  if  I'd 
sold  out  at  the  right  time.     That  was  the  mistake." 

"Never  mind,  old  boy,  never  mind,"  said  the  other, 
consolingly.  "You'll  sell  out  at  the  top  notch  next 
time." 

"  Yes,  I'm  so  likely  to  have  three  hundred  again. 
I've  got  the  rheumatism  and  the  quinsy  fastened  to 
me  for  life  from  freezing  so,  and  what  I've  suffered 
in  chilblains — there,  I  feel  'em  coming  into  my  toes 
now  while  I'm  talking." 

"Never  mind,  Jo,"  said  Ludlow,  a  genial,  whole- 
souled  fellow.  "I'll  stake  you  again  if  you  wait  a 
little.  I'm  into  a  scheme, — big  thing,  solid  men  back- 
ing it." 

"  What's  it  shut  down  for,  then  ?"  asked  Cass,  dryly. 

"  Got  to  buy  machinery." 

"  The  old  story,"  shaking  his  head.  "  The  same  old 
yarn.  They'll  freeze  you  out  sure.  Bob;  put  in  big 
works,  assess  you  your  proportion,  sweep  away  your 
little  pile  before  you  can  wink,  and  then  where  are 
you  ?  Take  my  advice :  sell  out  to  them,  take  what 
you  can  get,  for  if  you  wait  you'll  get  nothing." 

"Advising  seems  to  be  your  strong  point,"  said 
Bob,  icily.  "  But  then  this  is  a  vile  place ;  the  rich 
men  own  the  camp  and  every  one  in  it,  body  and 
soul." 

"  Buy  a  ticket  and  get  out,"  said  the  irrepressible 


106  ^  BLIND  LEAD, 

Jack.  "  If  you  cau't  buy  a  ticket,  walk,  but  get  out 
some  way.     My  advice  to  every  man  is  '  get.' " 

With  an  undisoruised  sioch  Barrow  drew  a  chair  to 
the  table  and,  ringing  for  a  pack  of  cards,  motioned 
his  chum  to  join  him  in  a  game.  This  last  tumble 
in  Richley  had  thrown  a  gloom  over  the  young  man's 
spirits,  and  he  wished  to  distract  his  mind  from 
his  unlucky  venture.  Three  or  four  others  drew  up 
chairs  and  tilted  them  back  comfortably  within  range 
of  the  cards.  But  one.  Mills,  a  dignified,  important 
sort  of  chap,  attired  in  all  the  faultlessness  of  a  Western 
exquisite,  looked  down  for  a  time  in  bored  contempt 
at  the  game  and  the  pitiful  mock  interest  of  the  on- 
lookers. Then  he  remarked  laconically,  "This  is 
rather  stale." 

No  one  seemed  impelled  to  contradict  the  statement 
or  vouchsafe  an  explanation  or  a  condolence,  so  turn- 
ing to  the  group  in  the  suddenness  of  an  inspiration, 
"  I  guess  I'll  go  over  and  call  on  Miss  Pizer,"  he  said. 
"  Who  of  you  gentlemen  will  accompany  me  ?" 

"  Every  one  of  us, — every  last  man  of  us."  And 
they  all  arose. 

"Thank  you,  I  never  knew  you  all  so  obliging 
before,"  said  Mills,  with  a  smile.  "  But  who  of  you 
has  ever  been  invited  ?" 

"  Why,  you  just  invited  the  crowd  yourself." 

"  Yes,  but  did  the  lady  invite  you  ?" 


THE  ''SILVERLINE.''  107 

"Oh,  tbat^s  another  matter."  And  they  reseated 
themselves  with  feigned  solemnity. 

"What!  none  of  you?  Then  Til  go  alone."  He 
threw  up  his  head  and  inflated  his  chest  in  token  of 
his  superiority,  adding, — 

"  I  guess  I'll  stay  to  tea."  The  boys  groaned,  and 
Mills,  with  a  dignified  bow,  walked  pompously  to- 
wards the  door. 

There  was  a  season  of  quiet  now,  in  which  they 
all  turned  to  watch  the  game,  while  Rierson  seated 
himself  on  the  window-ledge,  where  he  could  see  the 
players  and  the  passers-by  at  the  same  time.  He 
drew  out  a  cigar-case,  handed  it  around,  then  pro- 
ceeded leisurely  to  light  his  cigar.  The  others  followed 
his  example,  and  the  smoking  went  on  for  a  space  in 
silence.  The  sidewalk  along  this  street  was  the  best 
the  camp  afforded,  and  was  the  general  promenade. 
On  this  lovely  spring  afternoon  all  Colusa  seemed  to 
have  shaken  off  its  winter  torpor  and  ventured  forth 
to  sun  itself. 

"  Look,  boys,  there  goes  the  bride,"  Rierson  said 
presently  with  interest;  "do  see  how  old  Forsythe 
is  tuckered  out  ?     How  unnatural  he  must  feel !" 

They  glanced  out,  but  only  for  a  minute,  for  the 
players  seemed  to  have  reached  a  critical  point.  Bar- 
row sat  with  some  chips  in  his  uplifted  hand  eying 
his  opponent  and   uncertain  whether  or  not   to  put 


108  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

them  down.  He  looked  furtively  at  his  companion, 
at  the  cards,  then  slowly  dropped  them,  and  the 
other  jubilantly  raked  them  in. 

Poor  Jo  sat  like  a  stoic.  He  felt  that  he  was 
merely  a  football  for  Fate,  and  hadn't  the  courage  to 
even  conjecture  where  her  maliciousness  might  spin 
him  to  next.  It  was  all  due  to  the  drop  in  Richley. 
If  some  national  calamity  had  been  announced  sud- 
denly he  would  have  felt  it  was  only  natuml  after 
that  last  drop  in  Richley. 

Rierson's  queer  raucous  chuckle  broke  out  just  then, 
so  at  variance  with  his  melancholy  he  glanced  up. 

"  That  girl's  possessed  of  a  hull  legion  of  imps," 
he  was  saying  as  his  eye  fell  upon  some  one  passing 
in  the  street. 

"  Who's  that  ?"  Barrow  asked,  stretching  his  neck 
to  reach  an  angle  of  vision. 

"  Why,  that  Ada  Howard.  You  heard  of  the  last 
game  she  set  up  on  Judge  Black,  didn't  you  ?  I  tell 
you  if  she  wasn't  as  pretty  and  obliging  as  she  is  she'd 
be  locked  up  for  a  general  plague." 

Their  eyes  followed  the  sprightly  figure  with 
amused  indulgence.  It  was  evident  that  Judge  Black 
would  make  out  but  a  sorry  case  if  he  chose  his  jury 
from  the  young  men  of  the  club.  No  very  severe 
criticism  was  to  be  got  from  lips  that  smiled  with  such 
open    admiration.       It  said   too   plainly   that   Ada's 


THE  '' SILVERLTNE."  109 

winsome  beauty  would  excuse   a  little  elasticity  of 
behavior. 

They  were  diverted  from  further  comment  by  the 
arrival  of  some  new-comers.  More  chairs  were  drawn 
up,  several  new  packs  were  brought  out  and  dealt, 
while  a  few  of  the  group  returned  to  their  cues  and 
magazines. 

Rierson  and  Cass  still  continued  by  the  window. 
They  had  left  the  honors  and  excitement  to  the  ener- 
getic, for  themselves  they  preferred  the  indulgence  of 
doing  nothing.  Poor  fortune-hunters !  they  lacked  even 
the  enthusiasm  needed  to  kill  time.  These  two  for  a 
bribe  to  Chance  had  thrown  in  their  splendid  young 
manhood,  and  she  was  tossing  them  back — what  ?  dis- 
appointment and  atrophy  of  powers.  Social  life,  in- 
tellectual life,  they  had  left  them  behind,  and  were 
unconsciously  trying  to  delude  themselves  into  accept- 
ing as  an  equivalent  this  effervescence  of  an  hour. 
They  had  been  gazing  out,  occupied  (if  such  can  be 
called  occupied)  in  the  luxurious  indolence  of  smoking. 
Perhaps  the  clouded  mists  about  their  heads  lent 
visionary  beauty  to  the  outside  world,  or  the  narcotic 
influence  seemed  to  belong  with  the  day.  Suddenly 
Rierson  pointed  with  his  finger  across  the  street  and, 
removing  his  cigar,  called  out, — 

"Come  here,  boys;  come  here.  There  goes  Jerry 
Bray  and  his  bride  that  is  to  be." 

10 


110  A   BLIND  LEAD. 

The  words  fell  lightly,  but  as  they  fell  a  man 
peated  at  a  little  distance  reading  dropped  his  paper 
and  looked  out.  His  eyes  were  sharp,  eager,  intense. 
"Bride,"  he  repeated  to  himself.  "Everybody  knew 
it  but  me.  Oh,  blind  I  blind  !  none  so  blind  as  them 
that  won't  see." 

As  they  passed  along  the  street  Ellen  dropped  some- 
thing, and  Jerold  stooped  gracefully  and  restored  it, 
bestowing  as  he  did  so  a  faint  caress  upon  her  ex- 
tended hand.  It  was  slight,  too  slight  for  common 
notice,  but  the  eagle  eye  of  the  watcher  had  detected  it. 
With  a  smile,  in  which  satisfaction  and  pain  were 
strangely  blended,  "She  is  happy;  it's  best  so,"  he 
murmured,  and  quietly  resumed  his  paper. 

"  She's  an  uncommon  woman  for  these  parts,  don't 
you  think  so?"  questioned  Cass. 

"She'd  be  an  uncommon  woman  anywhere,"  the 
other  answered.  "  And  she  ain't  suited  to  Jerry  Bray. 
She's  so  quiet;  tries  to  carry  the  hull  world  on  her 
shoulders,  and  Jerry,  he's  such  a  devil-may-care,  easy- 
goin'  chap,  he'll  let  her  take  the  worryin'  all  through. 
It's  a  pity  she  didn't  take  a  fancy  to  some  other  kind 
of  a  fellow,"  with  a  faint  sigh. 

"  She'd  a  been  just  the  wife  for  Lucas  now,"  said  Cass. 

"  Or  Osborne.  She'd  have  put  his  money  where  it 
would  do  some  good,"  said  Barrow,  looking  up  from 
the  table. 


THE  '' SILVERLINE.''  IH 

.  The  man  who  had  been  silent  during  this  conversa- 
tion rose  now  and  folded  up  his  paper.  His  presence 
inspired  the  irreverent  Jo  with  a  thought,  and  he  con- 
tinued : 

"  Yes,  or  you,  Mr.  Hall.  You  need  a  wife.  As  a 
trustee  you  owe  something  to  the  teachers.  She'd  be 
just  the  one  for  you  now.  Why  didn't  you  speak  for 
her?" 

"  Gentlemen,''  replied  Robert  Hall,  with  a  cold,  calm 
dignity,  forcing  back  the  tremor  from  his  voice,  "  I've 
had  the  honor  of  proposing  to  Miss  Wayburn  an'  been 
declined."  And,  lifting  his  hat,  he  passed  from  the 
room. 

"  The — devil  I"  broke  slowly  from  Jo  Barrow's  lips. 
"  Well,  I  wouldn't  have  believed  there  was  a  girl  in 
Colusa  would  have  said  ^  no'  to  Robert  Hall."  And  in 
his  surprise  the  cards  fell  unnoted  upon  the  table  and 
lay  open  to  the  full  gaze  of  his  opponent. 

"  No  more  would  I,"  said  Rierson.  "  That's  the  best 
morsel  of  news  we've  had  since  the  Forsythe  blow- 
out.    I'll  tell  everybody  I  meet." 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word.  Before  the  week  was 
over  the  one  theme  of  conversation  in  the  camp  of 
Colusa  was  Ellen  Wayburn's  refusal  of  Robert  Hall. 
For  a  time  Ellen  was  looked  upon  with  a  new  interest, 
for  the  glory  of  being  proposed  to  by  such  a  man,  and 
Jerold  for  being  preferred  before  him. 


112  A  BLIND  LEAD, 

To  the  latter  it  brought  an  awakening.  In  the  con- 
sciousness of  how  utterly  Ellen's  heart  was  his,  the 
thought  of  another  suitor  had  never  presented  itself. 
Now,  however,  since  in  such  formidable  guise  a  rival 
had  come  he  began  to  feel  suspicious.  No  other 
woman,  in  such  a  choice,  would  have  cleaved  to  him ; 
lie  felt  that.  And  though  Robert  had  failed  once, 
might  he  not  succeed  for  a  second  asking ;  or  if  not 
he,  some  other  ?  It  roused  his  jealousy  and  gave  her, 
even  to  his  own  eyes,  a  greater  preciousness.  He  felt  a 
new  pride  in  himself  too,  that  his  betrothed  had  put 
away  such  an  alliance  to  be  his  wife.  "  She  is  a  noble 
girl,"  he  thought  to  himself,  "  and  I  am  unworthy  of 
her ;  but  she  is  satisfied,"  he  added,  complacently.  "  I 
certainly  love  her,  and  will  do  all  a  man  can  to  make 
her  happy.  I  must  secure  her  at  once;  I'll  take  no 
more  chances.  Yes,  it  must  be  fixed  up  now;  Fll  go 
there  this  very  night." 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

ARRANGED. 

True  to  his  resolution,  that  evening  found  Jerold 
Bray  in  attendance  upon  the  Wayburns.  His  engage- 
ment to  Ellen  had  been  accepted  from  the  first  as  a 
settled  fact,  but  their  marriage  had  always  partaken  of 
that  indefiniteness  that  pertains  to  things  in  the  haze 
of  distance.  It  might  or  it  might  not  occur,  and  one 
prayed  nightly  that  some  unknown  providence  might 
come  in  time  to  rescue  Ellen  from  this  union. 

"  Jerry  Bray  ain't  no  ways  good  enough  for  Ellen," 
Sarah  constantly  insisted  to  her  mother,  but,  with  a 
sisterly  affection,  the  nobler  since  her  nature  resented 
such  enforced  silence,  she  refrained  from  a  public  ut- 
terance of  her  opinion.  There  were  times  when  Mrs. 
Wayburn  herself  thought  of  Ellen's  future  with  fore- 
bodings,— of  what,  she  could  not  say.  But  Mrs.  Way- 
burn  was  unconsciously  much  of  a  fatalist,  and  even 
had  she  seen  distinctly  what  she  saw  only  in  dusky 
tangles  of  shadow,  she  would  probably  have  clasped 
her  hands  and  left  destiny  to  work  out  its  mysterious 
way. 

h  10*  118 


114  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

Jerold  realized  that  there  were  obstacles  in  the  way 
of  his  immediate  marriage  with  Ellen,  but,  like  all 
lovers,  he  had  an  undefined  faith  that  circumstances 
would  ally  themselves  to  his  cause.  Love  cannot 
brook  the  gross  sway  of  necessity  ;  it  belongs  with  the 
secret  forces  that  overlie  the  natural,  and  uncon- 
sciously it  trusts  their  linked  influence.  Difficulty, 
defeat,  it  defies  them,  for  its  free  spirit  is  not  to  be 
shackled  or  held  by  the  bars  of  the  impossible.  In 
the  awakening  of  purpose  that  had  come  from  Robert 
HalPs  proposal  Jerold  was  ready  to  leap  any  barrier  to 
his  goal, — ^he  was  in  for  success,  and  success  at  any 
cost. 

The  subject  of  their  marriage  had  been  discussed 
with  no  member  of  the  family  but  Ellen.  It  was  all 
so  unsettled  that  he  had  just  drifted  along,  waiting  for 
some  fate  to  release  her  from  the  burden  of  support. 
Now,  however,  he  felt  that  he  must  boldly  avow  his 
wishes  and  plead  for  their  realization.  Accordingly, 
after  the  first  general  conversation,  he  stole  quietly  to 
Mrs.  Wayburn's  side  and  whispered  that  he  wanted  a 
private  interview,  and  together  they  withdrew  to  the 
parlor. 

Jerold  was  in  the  gracious  humor  of  one  who  sees 
within  reach  some  coveted  prize,  and  he  felt  very 
warmly  to  the  kind  old  woman,  soon,  he  hoped,  to  be 
his  mother.     With  gentle  care  he  seated  her  in  Hie 


ARRANGED,  116 

home-made  arm-chair,  turned  the -lamp  that  the  h'ght 
should  not  shine  into  her  face,  and  lowered  the  window 
lest  the  night  air  should  prove  chilly. 

The  young  man  had  a  way  at  times  of  throwing 
into  his  smallest  attentions  a  grace  and  a  courtesy  that 
made  them  appear  like  princely  favors ;  no  one  knew 
better  than  he  how  to  pay  those  delicate  civilities  that 
give  men  such  a  power  with  women.  Alas !  the  pity 
was  that  he  should  hold  his  courtly  manners  unfitted 
to  a  camp  and  have  degenerated  into  the  easy  indiffer- 
ence of  the  frontier.  Now,  however,  in  the  exaltation 
of  his  love  his  native  charms  returned,  and  when  a  lit- 
tle after  he  drew  a  chair  up  close  and  laid  his  shapely 
hand  upon  the  old  lady's,  he  saw  in  her  pleased  smile 
something  that  bade  him  hope. 

Since  the  announcement  of  Robert  HalFs  proposal, 
which  had  been  to  the  household  as  much  of  a  sur- 
prise as  to  the  camp,  Mrs.  Wayburn  had  been  on  the 
sharp  edge  of  expectancy.  Something  must  follow  it 
was  plain.  That  Jerold  would  grow  anxious  she 
knew,  for  he  seemed  incapable  of  understanding  that 
feature  of  Ellen's  character  which,  to  her  mother,  was 
the  key-note  of  it  all.  "Ellen's  faithful  to  death 
when  she's  gev  her  word."  It  pained  the  honest 
woman  that  Jerold  should  entertain  the  doubt  which 
his  anxiety  implied;  how  little  he  comprehended  the 
secret  springs  of  the  girl's  being  when  he  thought  she 


116  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

could  be  tempted  to  disloyalty.  Still,  Ellen^s  happi- 
ness was  centred  in  this  man,  and  now  that  matters 
had  come  to  a  crisis  it  seemed,  to  the  mother,  unjust 
that  they  should  be  longer  denied. 

The  thought  of  her  misgivings  was  floating  farther 
and  farther  away,  for  the  young  man  in  the  eagerness 
of  his  desire  was  throwing  a  new  eloquence  into  his 
soft  musical  voice  and  a  deference  into  his  speech  that 
was  shading  into  a  low  entreaty. 

When  at  last  with  his  gathered  forces  he  pleaded  his 
long  love;  pledged  himself  in  those  golden  promises 
that  seem  so  real  to  the  dauntless  heart  of  youth,  and 
drew  those  bright  pictures  of  the  future,  that  rise 
before  the  enamoured  eyes  of  love,  the  impetuous 
appeal  carried  everything  before  it.  Poor  old  lady ! 
she  had  listened  to  them  all  before  in  her  own  day, 
but  that  day  was  so  long  ago  she  had  forgotten  the 
language  of  sentiment.  It  all  seemed  in  Jerold's  fer- 
vid outpouring  so  new  and  sweet  and  certain  she 
yielded  without  a  qualm, — and  so  the  victory  was  won. 
The  young  man  went  happily  home  that  night,  for  hope 
was  high  and  love  promised  its  sweet  fruition. 

It  came  to  Mrs.  Wayburn  when  he  was  gone  how 
rashly  she  had  engaged  to  intercede;  how  blindly  she 
had  bound  herself  to  his  will.  How  was  Ellen  to  be 
spared?  How  could  they  live?  Who  would  take 
her  place?     The  way  was  very  dark  and  she  could  get 


ARRANGED.  117 

DO  light  upon  it.  In  a  sort  of  grim  hopelessness  she 
summoned,  as  she  always  did  in  matters  of  importance, 
her  three  daughters  for  a  consultation.  Then  without 
waiting  for  ceremony  or  any  studied  introduction  she 
came  to  the  heart  of  the  subject  at  once. 

"  Jerold's  visit,"  she  said,  "  was  to  ask  that  him  an' 
Ellen  might  be  married  without  any  more  delay. 
It's  my  opinion  it's  best,  as  he  says,"  she  added,  with 
diffidence,  "  so  I've  called  you  all  to  talk  over  if  we 
can  fix  it." 

There  was  silence  for  a  time,  in  which  the  sisters  sat 
lost  for  words,  though,  in  truth,  they  had  all  in  a  gen- 
eral way  anticipated  what  was  coming.  Still,  now  it 
was  come,  no  one  had  any  hold  upon  language.  Ellen's 
face  was  suffused  with  a  gentle  glow  of  pleasure,  but 
she  held  her  eyes  against  the  floor,  as  though  afraid 
some  tremulous  thought  might  peep  out  and  disclose 
itself. 

Marcia  was  the  first  to  recover.  With  the  unselfish- 
ness of  her  nature  she  threw  herself  into  her  sister's 
arms. 

"  You  must,  Ellen,  you  must !  I'll  do  the  teaching 
and  you'll  get  married." 

"  You,  you  child !''  said  Ellen,  whose  face,  now  that 
it  was  raised,  was  a  study  with  its  alternating  smiles 
and  blushes.  "Do  you  think  I  could  let  you  wear 
your  little  life  away  so  ?" 


118  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

"  I^m  as  old  as  you  were  when  you  commenced, — 
and  I  know  a  great  deal  more  than  you  did/'  she 
ventured,  frankly. 

"So  you  do,  dear;  but  I'll  never  agree  that  you 
shall  be  sacrificed.  I'm  old  now,  twenty-eight,  and 
hardened  by  this  time,  so  I  don't  mind  it  much ;  but 
to  bid  you  drag  through  your  years  as  I  have,  never, 
darling,  never,  never!" 

"  I  don't  think  I'll  need  to  do  it  long,"  Marcia  whis- 
pered bashfully,  and  hid  her  crimson  face  in  Ellen's  neck. 

"  So  that's  the  story,  is  it,  you  rogue  ?  Why,  you 
naughty  little  mischief,  you've  been  keeping  it  a  secret, 
have  you  ?  Who  would  ever  have  believed  it  ?"  And 
she  pinched  and  petted  by  turns  the  soft  cheek  nestling 
beside  her  own. 

"  My  dear  daughter,"  the  mother  began.  But  Sarah 
rushed  over,  snatched  up  the  slender  figure  in  her  arms, 
and  bestowed  upon  Marcia  what  was  doubtless  in- 
tended for  a  hug,  but  resembled  a  good  shaking  more. 
Then  she  deposited  her  again  in  Ellen's  lap  and  re- 
seated herself. 

"  But,  daughter,"  the  mother  commenced  anew. 

"  Now  don't,  ma,  look  injured  that  way,"  said  Marcia, 
entreatingly,  "as  if  I  hadn't  trusted  you.  Ben  wasn't 
ready  and  neither  was  I.  It  wasn't  time  to  tell  it. 
Ellen  surprised  it  out;  it's  all  her  fault."  Hiding  her 
head  again  in  her  sister's  neck. 


ARRANGED.  119 

*^  There,  there,  child,"  said  Ellen,  soothingly.  "  You 
needn^t  be  ashamed.  Ben's  a  nice  manly  fellow,  and  we 
haven't  a  word  against  him ;  only  you're  pretty  young." 

"Yes,  Ben  and  I  talked  it  all  over.  He  expects  a 
better  position  by  and  by.  When  he  got  it,  then  we 
were  going  to  tell  you  all.  And  now,  till  we  are 
ready,  you  must  let  me  take  your  place  and  teach. 
You  will,  won't  you,  since  I've  told  you  about  it?" 
She  lifted  her  eyes  to  Ellen's  face. 

"  Yes,  Ellen,  I  think  Marcia's  the  right  of  it,"  put 
in  the  mother.  "  You've  done  for  us  now  ten  years, 
an'  I'll  not  hear  to  your  doin'  it  no  longer.  I've  gave 
it  a  pile  of  thought  of  late.  Besides,  you're  all  givin' 
out.  We'll  manage  some  w^ay,  dear,"  she  said,  waving 
back  the  protest  upon  Ellen's  lips.  "  We'll  manage 
some  way,  an'  don't  you  doubt." 

Sarah,  during  the  conference,  had  sat  in  silence.  At 
first  her  forehead  had  wrinkled  and  her  mouth  shut 
hard.  There  was  opposition  in  her  heart ;  but  when 
she  saw  the  happiness  in  Ellen's  face  and  heard  the 
brave  proposal  from  little  Marcia  her  spirit  broke ;  she 
felt  that  she  could  not  lift  a  finger  against  Ellen's 
lover.  Nay,  more,  for  her  sister's  sake  she  must  bury 
her  feelings  and  help  too.  The  struggle  was  sharp,  but 
it  was  soon  past.  She  sat  quietly  biding  her  time,  and 
now,  in  the  silence,  she  spoke  out  quick  and  determined 
after  her  manner. 


120  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

"  We^ll  manage,  yes,  an*  I  know  how  we'll  do  it. 
IVe  been  oookin'  up  this  goose  for  six  hull  months, 
an'  now  it's  done  brown  an'  ready  for  carvin'.  There's 
no  use  anybody  say  in'  no.  I've  made  up  my  mind,  an' 
that  ends  it." 

"  You  must  put  it  to  the  vote,  daughter,"  said  Mrs. 
Wayburn. 

"  Put  nothin'  to  the  vote !  I  say  I'll  do  it,  an'  I'll 
do  it.     See  if  I  can't  pervide  for  this  fam'ly." 

""Well,  what  is  it?  Do  tell  us  what  it  is,"  said 
Marcia. 

"  Don't  you  be  too  inquisitive.  Miss  Sly.  I  notice  you 
don't  tell  all  you  know  nor  wait  much  for  advice." 

"  But  I  was  going  to  tell  you,  Sarah.  You  know  I 
never  meant  to  keep  it  a  secret." 

"  Molasses !  Don't  you  try  to  wind  me  'round  your 
finger,  Marcia  Wayburn,"  she  answered,  giving  her 
another  shake. 

"  But  tell  us  your  plan,  Sarah,"  said  the  mother. 

"  I've  been  up  to  Julie's,  an'  she's  comin'  to  take  my 
place  here  an' " 

"  But  goodness,  Sarah !"  began  the  old  woman,  "  we 
never  can,  never " 

"  Don't  Sarah  me  now,"  the  daughter  went  on  im- 
petuously. "  Julie's  comin'  here  an'  she's  comin',  an' 
I'm  goin'  down  to  the  store  an'  I'm  goin'." 

"  Bravo  I    bravo !"    shouted    Marcia,      "  I    always 


ARRANGED.  "      121 

knew  you'd  turn  up  somewhere  yet.  You're  a  regular 
find." 

"  There's  no  reason,  as  I  can  see,"  continued  Sarah, 
"why  that  store  shouldn't  pay,  an'  I'm  agoin'  to  make 
it  pay." 

But  the  mother  and  Ellen  looked  on  deprecatingly. 

"I  don't  think  it'll  work,  Sarah,  girl.  This  is  a 
hard  place,  this  minin'-camp,  an'  the  men  ain't  always 
gentlemen." 

"I'll  take  my  chances,"  said  Sarah,  unconsciously 
setting  akimbo  an  arm  that  daily  labor  had  made  hard 
and  firm. 

"And  father,"  said  Ellen;  "I'm  afraid  you  will 
have  a  task  persuading  him  to  resign  the  management 
to  you." 

"  You  let  me  'lone  with  father.  I'm  the  only  one 
in  the  house  he  minds,  anyway.  If  he  can't  s'port  his 
fam'Iy,  it's  high  time  he  let  some  one  as  can.  This 
foolin's  done;  I  wish  I'd  had  the  grit  to  take  it  up 
long  'go." 

The  mother  and  Ellen  were  full  of  objections  and 
hard  to  be  convinced.  Their  arguments  were  many 
and  reasonable,  but  Sarah  doggedly  fought  them  down. 
In  truth,  the  more  her  scheme  was  discussed  the  more 
feasible  it  really  appeared,  and  at  last  the  objections  were 
reluctantly  withdrawn  and  the  resolute  will  triumphed. 

So  it  was  settled ;  Marcia  should  take  the  school  the 
y  11 


122      »  ^  BLIND  LEAD, 

succeeding  year;  Sarah  try  her  luck  with  the  store, 
and  Ellen, — in  the  bright  days  of  June  Ellen  should 
be  Jerold's  bride. 

They  had  talked  far  into  the  night  and  rose  to  break 
up  the  meeting,  all  gathering  about  Ellen,  whom 
they  felt  now  for  the  first  time  they  were  really  going 
to  give  up.  They  hung  over  her,  kissing  and  caress- 
ing and  wishing  her  joy.  The  practical  Sarah  was 
even  betrayed  into  tears,  and  called  her  "  a  cruel  thing 
to  run  off  so,  first  chance,  and  leave  them  all."  But 
the  mother  clung  to  her  with  that  lingering  mother-love 
that  shrinks  so  from  giving  up  its  treasures. 

They  separated  at  last  and  went  each  to  her  own 
room  to  catch  what  sleep  she  might  before  the  dawn, — 
all  but  Ellen ;  for  her  was  no  sleep  and  no  desire  for 
sleep. 

The  joy  in  her  heart  was  unrestrained  to-night. 
The  load  she^had  borne  so  long  and  faithfully  was 
lifted  at  last,  and  oh,  the  relief!  In  the  newness  of 
freedom  her  spirit  seemed  to  swell  and  soar  away,  as 
might  some  bird  long  caged,  who  felt  again  the  strength 
within  its  wings. 

And  this  was  life,  the  life  she  had  suppressed  so 
long,  rich  with  love  and  happiness !  She  seemed  new- 
born, viewing  the  world  with  eyes  just  opened  to  its 
beauties.  Melody  was  everywhere,  but  the  sweetest 
melody  sang  itself  over  in  her  heart.     She  looked  out 


ARRANGED.  123 

into  the  midnight  sky;  how  bright  it  was  with  its 
myriad  stars;  how  peaceful  in  its  silence!  She  ex- 
ulted in  the  vague  consciousness  of  enlarged  powers; 
this  brightness,  this  beauty  was  for  her,  with  her  new 
faculty  for  perceiving  it.  Her  soul  was  suddenly  at- 
tuned to  all  the  joy  and  harmony  in  the  universe,  and 
she  was  dumb  for  very  gladness.  She  longed  to  give 
uttemnce  to  her  feeling,  but  no  sound  came;  even  in 
her  heart  it  found  no  word,  but  surged  and  throbbed 
in  one  sweet  sense  of  completeness.  Her  happiness 
was  full,  and  sinking  at  last  upon  her  couch,  the  wild 
tumult  broke  forth  in  that  mysterious  cry  that  voices 
those  emotions  of  the  soul  too  deep  for  human  language. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

A  CHANGE  OF  HEADS. 

AccoEDiNG  to  the  plan  agreed  upon  in  the  council, 
the  following  week  Sarah  Wayburn  prepared  to  take 
charge  of  her  father^s  store. 

There  had  been  an  interview  long  and  spirited 
between  father  and  daughter;  the  former  maintaining 
his  inalienable  right  as  head  of  the  house  to  manage 
and  direct  his  own  affairs;  the  latter  insisting  that  the 
success  of  the  business  was  the  first  concern,  the  pro- 
prietorship altogether  secondary. 

Although  the  discussion  was  prolonged  through 
three  whole  days  neither  party  was  convinced,  nor  did 
either  seem  likely  to  convince  the  other.  Since  words 
effected  nothing,  early  Monday  morning,  securing  the 
key,  Sarah,  undaunted,  walked  leisurely  down  and 
took  possession  of  the  store.  When  her  father  ar- 
rived she  was  settled  in  all  her  majesty,  an  incubus 
he  was  helpless  to  remove.  Nothing  remained,  there- 
fore, but  for  him  to  accept  the  inevitable  with  as  good 
a  grace  as  might  be. 

He  went  about  in  silence,  looking  as  stern  and  for- 
124 


A   CHANGE  OF  HEADS.  125 

bidding  as  he  could  with  his  naturally  gentle  counte- 
nance, but  Sarah  was  impervious  to  demeanor  and 
calmly  held  her  ground.  In  a  few  days  the  bitterest 
of  the  hostility  had  spent  itself,  and  the  old  man  was 
gradually  falling  into  his  easy  way  of  accepting  facts 
and  making  the  best  of  them.  Still  he  never,  even  in 
his  most  submissive  mood,  was  betrayed  into  anything 
that  approached  a  reconciliation  to  her  presence.  She 
was  tolerated,  that  was  all ;  and  that  only  because  she 
could  not  be  got  rid  of. 

Sarah  remained  the  first  week  content  with  simply 
fastening  herself  as  a  fixture ;  the  next  week  she  be- 
gan her  reforms.  Every  nook  and  corner  was  ex- 
amined and  its  contents  brought  to  light ;  every  book 
was  taken  down,  every  shelf  cleaned,  every  window 
washed,  the  floor  scrubbed,  and  all  so  thoroughly 
cleansed  that  it  was  jokingly  told  of  old  Wayburn 
that  three  times  in  one  day  he  passed  his  own  place, 
not  recognizing  it,  and  went  into  Jacob's  old  second- 
hand store  instead. 

Barah  then  carefully  sorted  the  stock,  putting  each 
book  upon  the  shelf  where  it  might  be  displayed  to 
the  best  advantage.  She  arranged  some  of  the  showier 
works  neatly  in  holders,  and  set  them  upon  a  table, 
and  spread  temptingly  in  sight  the  magazines  and 
weeklies.  Then  she  arranged  the  show-case  with 
stationery,  pens,  and   such   knick-knacks  as   offered. 

11* 


126  ^   BLIND  LEAD. 

Her  chef  d^ceuvrCy  however,  was  the  window.  Here 
she  displayed  her  choicest  attractions,  and  arranged 
everything  so  artistically  that  the  very  wares  seemed 
transformed  under  her  touch.  She  set  chairs  in- 
vitingly within  reach  of  the  books,  and  assuming  her 
most  business-like  manner,  was  ready  to  attend  upon 
the  public. 

Altogether  the  little  store  was  now  one  of  the  most 
attractive  spots  in  the  camp,  and  seemed  to  need  only 
acquaintance  to  insure  it  profit  and  popularity.  "  That 
girPs  got  a  business  head"  was  the  judgment  of  many 
who  passed  and  lingered  to  survey.  "  She'll  do  better 
than  her  father.'* 

The  success  at  first  was  not,  however,  dazzling. 
The  air  of  general  good-for-nothingness  that  had  per- 
meated the  old  institution  seemed  linked  with  the 
place  in  the  minds  of  the  people.  Besides,  Colusa 
was  not  a  reading  community.  The  miners  confined 
themselves,  when  they  did  read,  to  the  daily  papers, 
and  the  rest  of  the  populace  was  content  with  maga- 
zines and  the  cheaper  form  of  novel.  To  widen  the 
range  of  custom  she  determined  to  vary  the  stock  a 
little,  and  got  in  a  supply  of  toys,  some  fine  china- 
ware,  a  little  sheet  music,  and  ventured  upon  four  steel 
engravings,  which  she  hung  in  the  best  possible  setting. 

Presently  the  public  began  to  find  out  that  Way- 
burn's  wasn't  such  a  bad  place  to  patronize  after  all. 


A  CHANGE   OF  HEADS.  127 

The  young  men  too  gradually  concluded  that  it  was  a 
little  plcasanter  to  buy  their  trifles  from  a  buxom  lass 
(who  certainly  had  a  very  cheery  smile  when  she  chose 
to  unbend  and  display  it)  than  from  the  prosy  men, 
whose  smiles  were  masculine  smiles  at  best. 

Upon  the  innovations  made  about  his  premises 
James  Wayburn  looked  with  open  disapproval.  His 
independence  seemed  gone  and  his  harmless  ease  with 
it.  In  every  way  Sarah  tried  to  respect  his  dignity 
and  reconcile  him  to  the  new  regime,  but  she  was 
scarcely  likely  to  succeed.  At  last  two  events  trans- 
pired which  brought  a  rupture. 

But  six  weeks  remained  till  the  end  of  school,  and 
the  little  home  sitting-room  began  to  give  evidence 
of  unusual  activity.  The  sewing-machine  was  drawn 
close  to  the  window,  the  table-cover  was  removed,  the 
large  shears  were  in  readiness,  and  everywhere  about 
were  patterns,  linens,  laces,  and  dress-stuffs,  which 
promised  to  develop  under  the  mother's  and  Marcia's 
agile  fingers  into  garments  of  service  and  of  beauty. 
"  Ellen's  trousseau  '11  be  my  gift,"  Sarah  had  promised 
herself,  and  little  by  little,  sure  enough,  the  money  had 
been  gathered  together,  until  now  the  material  was  in 
the  house  for  everything  but  that  crowning  glory, — 
the  wedding-dress.  "That  '11  be  a  beauty,  a  reg'lar 
beauty,"  Sarah  resolved  mentally,  and  redoubled  her 
efforts.     She  arranged  the  window  afresh,  added  some 


128  ^  BLIND  LEAD, 

cheap  musical  instruments,  expanded  her  smile,  and 
endeavored  with  all  her  ingenuity  to  hasten  sales  and 
secure  the  coveted  robe. 

One  day  there  entered  the  store  a  daughter  of  one  of 
the  wealthier  citizens. 

"I'm  going  down  to  the  country,  Miss  "Wayburn, 
to  spend  a  couple  of  months  on  brother's  ranch.  I 
tliought  I'd  take  along  some  light  reading, — Tom 
don't  keep  much  of  a  supply  on  hand, — and  I  want 
you  to  help  me  select  it." 

Sarah  hastened  from  behind  the  counter,  and  to- 
gether they  examined  a  pile  of  the  latest  novels.  They 
picked  out  six  with  the  most  promising  titles,  and  the 
lady  took  out  her  pocket-book  to  pay  for  them.  The 
old  man  had  stepped  back  for  a  pamphlet  he  wanted, 
and  now  he  came  leisurely  forward. 

"Indulging  your  literary  tastes,  Miss  F ?"  he 

inquired,  pleasantly. 

"  Yes ;  laying  in  some  reading  for  the  ranch." 

"  What  have  you  chosen  ?"  he  asked,  taking  the  books 
Uf)  separately  and  scanning  the  titles. 

He  laid  each  down  with  a  sort  of  grunt,  and  said, 
disgustedly,  as  he  replaced  the  last,  "  Trash,  trash,  the 
whole  lot  I  I've  read  'era,  every  one,  and  they're  not 
worth  the  paper  they're  printed  on." 

"  Indeed !  is  that  possible  ?  Miss  Wayburn  thought 
they'd  be  very  interesting.     Well,  I  guess  I'd  better 


A   CHANGE  OF  HEADS.  129    ' 

not  take  them  if  that's  so.  Come  to  think  of  it,  they 
would  load  up  my  trunk ;  and  the  freight's  going  to 
bankrupt  me  anyway,"  she  added,  laughing. 

Sarah  choked  back  the  rage  in  her  heart  and  smiled 
faintly. 

"  As  you  wish,''  she  answered,  as  courteously  as  she 
could,  and,  without  a  purchase,  the  lady  went  on. 

"  Now,  father,"  said  Sarah,  the  ferment  of  her  wrath 
to  be  withheld  no  longer,  "  we  ain't  goin'  on  this  way 
no  longer ;  that's  the  fourth  good  sale  you've  stopped  in 
three  days.  You  may  be  the  propri'ter  or  anything 
else  on  earth  you  like,  but  I'm  salesman,  an'  I  won't 
be  interfered  with."  And  in  her  burst  of  feeling  she 
slammed  the  books  back  upon  the  shelf. 

"  I'd  like  to  know  where  Ellen's  things  's  goin'  to 
come  from  at  this  rate,"  she  protested,  disconsolately. 
Overpowered  with  the  thought  of  injury  she  retreated  to 
the  rear  of  the  store,  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  cried. 

Now  Sarah  was  not  of  the  crying  kind,  and  the  old 
man  felt  that  he  had  exasperated  her  to  the  uttermost, 
and  he  returned  to  his  pamphlet  somewhat  discomfited. 
He  was  sorry  he  had  spoken  so  inopportunely,  but  the 
habits  of  a  lifetime  were  not  to  be  conquered  in  a  day. 
He  was  sorrier  yet  because,  in  some  way,  Ellen  must 
suffer  for  his  folly.  He  revolved  in  his  mind  how  he 
could  make  it  up  to  her  and  retrieve  his  disgrace ;  but 
no  way  seemed  to  commend  itself  to  his  judgment. 


CHAPTER    XV. 


A  GREAT  BARGAIN. 


About  a  week  later  Sarah  called  her  father.  A  bill 
was  to  be  paid,  and  the  place  where  she  must  go  to  pay 
it  was  right  in  the  midst  of  the  worst  dens  of  the 
camp.  She  had  made  it  a  point  to  never  require  her 
father's  services;  but  this  taking  the  place  of  a  man 
was  new  to  her,  and  she  was  not  yet  hardened  to  all 
its  disagreeable  features.  She  shrank  from  subjecting 
herself  to  the  scrutiny  of  the  low  profligates  among 
whom  she  would  have  to  pass.  Besides,  armed  hos- 
tility had  raged  again  since  the  episode  of  the  books ; 
and  Sarah  thought  she  might  perhaps  restore  the  spirit 
of  tolerance  if  she  seemed  to  share  interests  with  her 
father ;  so  she  called  him. 

"  Here's  this  bill  of  King's,  pa.  Wouldn't  you  go 
down  and  settle  it?  I  thought  some  of  lettin'  it  wait 
and  gettin'  Ellen's  things;  but  more  I  think,  more 
I  guess  we'd  best  pay  up  the  bills  and  wait  for  the 
profits." 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  as  if  uncertain  whether  or 
not  to  accept  the  olive-branch,  but  at  last  he  seemed 
somewhat  mollified,  for  he  answered,  "Yes,  I'll  go. 
130 


A   GREAT  BARGAIN.  131 

'Tain't  a  fit  place  for  a  woman  down  there  in  the 
slums.  Women^s  place  is  at  home  tending  to  their 
own  concerns." 

Sarah  took  no  notice  of  the  insinuation.  "  There's 
the  bill;  get  the  receipt.  And  here's  the  money," 
handing  him  iifty-five  dollars  in  gold.  "  I  do  so  wish 
it  didn't  have  to  be  paid.  I'd  get  Ellen's  present 
then,"  she  remarked,  in  her  last  vain  protest. 

"  It's  a  point  in  business  t'  always  pay  bills  first," 
he  answered,  with  dignity,  and  marched  slowly  out. 

Since  Sarah's  arrival  the  handling  of  the  money  had 
been  withdrawn  entirely  from  the  proprietor.  Now 
the  feel  of  the  cash  in  his  pocket  was  like  the  clasp 
of  an  old  friend.  He  regained  his  spirit  immediately; 
he  was  his  own  natural  self  once  more ;  his  confidence 
in  his  own  methods  was  restored,  and  he  became  again 
a  factor  in  the  life  and  progress  of  the  camp.  He 
seemed  to  have  acquired  suddenly  a  fresh  vitality,  for 
he  carried  his  head  erect  with  a  feeling  of  new  impor- 
tance. Yet  he  walked  very  slowly,  as  though  realizing 
how  temporary  is  all  joy,  and  wishing  to  prolong  to 
the  uttermost  this  short  lease  of  freedom. 

He  went  along  uneventfully  until  he  got  nearly  to 
his  destination.  As  he  reached  the  corner  of  one  of 
the  lower  streets,  however,  he  was  attracted  by  the 
sight  of  a  crowd,  and  going  over,  he  discovered  that 
the  centre  of  interest  was  a  horse  auction.     Five  ani- 


132  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

mals  were  being  paraded  about  the  enclosure;  three 
had  been  sold,  and  but  two  remained.  One  of  these 
the  auctioneer  was  closing  out  now.  As  the  old  man 
came  up,  "Goin* — ^goin' — gone,"  the  hand  fell,  and 
the  fourth  was  disposed  of. 

"  A  bargain  that,  I  should  say,"  commented  one  of 
the  onlookers. 

"Yes,  there's  no  bidders  to-day,  and  they're  goin' 
cheap.  There's  been  too  many  horse  sales  lately. 
That  last  lot  Lewis  brought  in  he  had  to  ship  back, 
the  market  was  so  overstocked." 

But  the  auctioneer  had  opened  again.  "  What  am 
I  offered  for  this  last  animal,  the  finest  o'  th'  lot?  I 
always  keep  th'  best  to  th'  last.  Come!  I've  given 
away  the  rest.  Look  at  her  there,  fat  and  sleek. 
Let's  see  a  sight  of  coin  on  this  'ere.  How  much  fur 
'er?     How  much  am  I  bid?" 

"  Twenty-five  dollars,"  came  timidly  from  a  voice. 

"Twenty-five  dollars!"  repeated  the  auctioneer,  in 
tones  of  the  most  withering  disdain.  "  Twenty-five  dol- 
lars fur  that  mare!  I  wouldn't.  I  wouldn't  really  risk 
so  much.  Say  six  bits ;  make  it  six  bits  an'  be  safe. 
You  might  lose,  ye  know."     And  the  crowd  laughed. 

He  waited  some  time,  but  no  one  seemed  disposed  to 
offer  more.  The  situation  was  becoming  strained  and 
the  laugh  bid  fair  to  be  continued  at  the  expense  of  the 
auctioneer. 


A   GREAT  BARGAIN.  133 

"  Wal,  I  'spose,  since  our  friend  is  afeard  to  run  too 
great  risks,  we'll  have  t'  take  his  twenty-five  fer  a 
starter,"  he  said,  resignedly. 

"  Twenty-five,  twenty-five,  twenty-five  for  that  beau- 
tiful creatur' !  Why,  gentlemen,  you  don't  know  what 
you're  biddin'  on.  Look  at  her  I  Examine  her !  If 
you  find  a  flaw,  yes,  if  you  can  even  find  a  crooked 
hair,  I'll  give  her  to  you.  She's  worth  two  hundred 
if  she's  worth  a  cent.  Come,  bid  up,  gentlemen. 
Twenty-five, — thirty, — thirty-five  dollars.  That's  it, 
bid  'er  up ;  you  haven't  bid  th'  worth  of  her  tail  yet. 
Forty,  forty,  forty  dollars;  make  it  forty.  That's 
right,  forty  it  is;  forty,  make  it  forty-five,  forty- 
five,—" 

But  there  was  a  long  stop  at  forty.  "  You'll  never 
get  another  chance  like  this.  Why,  'er  hide's  worth 
more'n  I'm  offered  for  the  hull  boss.  This  beast  ain't 
raised  in  this  'ere  sage-brush  kentry,  lem  me  tell  you. 
She's  imported,  imported, — that  is,  her  ancestors  was, — 
an'  she's  straight  from  Kentucky,  th'  blue  grass  region. 
She's  got  reg'lar  racin'  blood  in  'er,  she  has.  Why, 
she'll  win  you  a  thousand  any  day  down  'ere  on  th' 
track,  and  I'm  offered  forty  dollars,  forty-five,  forty- 
five, — make  it  forty-five.  That's  it.  Forty-five  it  is. 
Some  of  you  fellers  that  ain't  biddin'  '11  be  cussin'  your- 
selves all  th'  way  home  when  I  knock  'er  down  soon. 
Forty-five !  forty-five !     Take  'er,  man,  an'  sell  'er  for 

12 


134  ^   BLIND  LEAD, 

old  bones!  You'll  make  money.  Forty-five,  forty- 
five,  forty-five  dollars  I'm  offered.  Forty-five,  forty- 
five!" 

He  took  out  his  large  yellow-bordered  handkerchief 
and  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead. 

"  Forty-five  !  Well,  I  can't  stand  'ere  bakin'  in  th' 
sun  all  day.  I'll  have  to  throw  'er  away,  I  see,  after 
all.  Here's  to  you  then.  Forty-five  goin'!  Forty- 
five  goiji'  I  forty-five " 

"Fifty,"  came  in  scarcely  audible  tones  from  the 
end  of  the  line. 

"That's  right;  speak  up,  man.  Fifty,  fifty,  fifty, 
goin'  once, — fifty,  goin'  twice, — fifty,  three  times  and 
sold, — to  our  old  friend,  James  Wayburn."  A  smile 
spread  over  the  man's  countenance  that  might  have 
awaked  suspicion  in  any  one  more  wary ;  but  the  old 
man  was  innocent  of  any  thought  of  guile.  With  a 
happy  heart  he  took  the  halter  and  led  the  horse  away. 
He  had  got  his  wish;  here  now  was  a  present,  and 
what  a  fitting  present !  for  Ellen.  A  horse  was  not  an 
extravagance,  it  was  a  very  necessity.  She  would  have 
all  her  time  to  ride  presently,  and  what  pleasure  and 
profit  she  might  derive  from  the  use  of  it !  And  this 
horse  was  a  credit  too ;  Ellen  need  never  be  ashamed 
to  ride  her.  No  blindness  here;  she  was  a  racer;  a 
graceful,  supple-limbed,  agile  creature,  with  a  glossy 
black  coat,  full  mane  and  tail ;  just  the  kind  of  a  gift 


A    GREAT  BARGAIN.  135 

he  would  have  selected.  How  opportunely  he  had 
chanced  along! 

In  his  happy  meditations  he  forgot  all  about  Sarah 
and  all  about  the  bill  he  had  left  unpaid.  He  was  con- 
scious only  of  the  possession  of  a  splendid  horse,  and 
of  Ellen's  anticipated  surprise.  For  an  hour  he  led 
the  animal  up  and  down,  studying  her  fine  points  and 
rejoicing  in  his  ownership. 

"  What  a  bargain !  I'm  glad  I  traded  old  blind 
Jennie  now.  Besides,  the  Deans  was  always  warring 
about  the  horse  and  Sarah  was  always  warring  about 
the  hogs,  and  I  couldn't  see  any  way  to  settle  it  but  to 
swap  horse  against  hogs.  Ma  says  I  lost  five  dollars 
on  the  trade.  What  of  that  ?  I  got  all  she  was  worth, 
every  cent  she  was  worth.  I  always  do  get  all  a  thing's 
worth,"  he  added,  with  satisfied  emphasis.  "Guess 
she'll  allow  I  got  the  worth  of  my  money  this  time." 

After  feasting  his  eyes  and  his  heart  upon  the  animal 
sufficiently,  he  turned  the  nearest  corner  and  led  her 
home  in  triumph. 


CHAPTER    XVL 


NEMESIS. 


As  James  Wayburn  was  tying  the  horse  to  the  fence- 
post  a  hand  was  laid  familiarly  upon  his  shoulder  and, — 

"  What's  this  ?  been  buying  a  horse  ?''  said  the  new- 
comer. 

*'  Yes ;  ain't  she  a  beauty  V* 

"  She  is  good-lookin'  sure  enough ;  a  saddle-horse  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  bought  her  for  Ellen.  The  weddin's  to 
come  off  in  a  month,  you  know,"  he  whispered,  with  a 
confidential  wink,  "  so  I  thought  Fd  make  her  a  little 
present." 

The  listener  winced  slightly,  but  the  old  man  went 
on: 

"  She's  a  lady's  horse,  and  very  gentle.  Ellen's  a 
trifle  skeery  on  horseback." 

"She  looks  spirited,"  the  other  said,  walking 
around  the  horse  to  examine  her  better.  "She's  a 
good  chest  and  carries  herself  well;  trim  built  too. 
She  looks  like  she  might  be  good  under  saddle." 

"She's  a  racer,   imported, — that   is    her  ancestors 
was, — and  she's  from  Kentucky,"  he  said,  proudly. 
136 


NEMESIS.  137 

The  hearer  looked  somewhat  incredulous,  but  did 
not  venture  a  contradiction. 

"  We  can  try  her  down  on  vthe  course  some  day. 
She's  won  as  high  as  a  thousand  dollars  I  think  he 
Buid.     I  disreraember  the  amount." 

"  She  hasn't  the  gait  of  a  racer  I  shouldn't  say,"  the 
other  observed,  hesitatingly. 

"  You  can't  tell, — you  can't  tell  anything  about  'em. 
Horses  are  like  women,  you  think  you  know  all  about 
'em,  and  you  know  nothing, — nothing  at  all." 

"  I  know  a  pile  more  about  horses  than  I'll  ever 
know  about  women,"  said  Robert  Hall.  "  Still  I  don't 
know  all  about  horses  neither,  and  mebbe  my  judg- 
ment about  the  racin'  qualities  of  this  un  ain't  of  much 
'count." 

"  Well,  she  was  a  bargain.  Racer  or  no  racer,  she 
was  a  bargain." 

"  What  did  you  have  to  give  ?" 

"Only  fifty  dollars." 

"  What?"     And  he  stared  incredulously. 

"  Fact ;  I  bought  her  for  fifty  dollars  down  to  the 
auction." 

A  thought  looked  suddenly  out  in  the  man's  face. 
Then  there  was  a  pause. 

"  Did  Rogers  sell  her  ?"  he  asked  at  length. 

"  Yes,  sold  five,  and  this  was  the  pick  of  the  lot." 

There  was  another  long  silence,  in  which  the  owner 

12* 


138  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

continued  examining  his  purchase,  and  his  companion 
leaned  against  the  fence-post  lost  in  thought. 

Finally  the  latter  seemed  to  have  an  idea,  for  he 
stepped  quietly  to  the  old  man's  side. 

"  I've  been  wantin'  a  horse  for  some  time ;  this  is  a 
nice-looliin'  beast.     What  do  you  say  to  sell  in'  her?" 

"  Selling  her  ?  Why,  man,  I've  just  bought  her.  I 
haven't  owned  her  two  hours  yet." 

"  What  o'  that  ?  You  can  get  another ;  horses  is 
plenty  about  camp.     I'll  go  with  you  and  pick  one  out." 

"I  never  could  get  any  such  bargain  as  this  one, 
though." 

"  Pshaw !  Nonsense !  Money  '11  buy  the  best 
hoi*se-flesh  that's  growed.  Come,  I  want  this  un. 
What '11  you  take?" 

"  I  couldn't  do  it,  Robert,  couldn't  do  it." 

"  You  can  cinch  me  a  little ;  it's  right  enough  you'd 
have  your  profit.     What  do  you  name  ?" 

"  If  I'd  sell  her  to  any  one  I'd  sell  her  to  you.  You 
mus'n't  take  it  ill  of  me,  friend,  but  she's  Ellen's,  not 
mine." 

"Nonsense,  Way  burn!  Business  's  business.  I'll 
give  you  seventy-five.     That's  raisin'  you 'twenty-five." 

"It's  a  good  price,  but,"  he  whispered  happily, 
"  don't  you  understand  ?  She's  a  bridal  gift ;  our 
Ellen's  bridal  gift." 

"Yes,  I  know,  I  understand.     But  I've  taken  an 


NEMESIS.  139 

uncommon  likin'  to  the  mare,  and  Fd  call  it  a  great 
favor  if  youM  let  me  have  her." 

"Td  give  her  to  you,  boy,  for  nothing  but  old 
memory^s  sake ;  but  I  couldn't  find  it  in  my  heart  to 
give  away  a  wedding  gift.  It  would  be  unlucky  and 
bring  misfortune." 

While  they  were  discussing,  the  old  man  had  been 
leading  the  horse  around,  finding  always  new  points  of 
excellence,  and  stopping  now  and  then  to  answer  his 
companion's  remarks.  Now  as  they  stood  together, 
reasoning  more  earnestly,  they  glanced  at  the  animal 
and  were  struck  by  its  strange  appearance.  Its  eyes 
were  rolling  upward,  its  head  was  tossing,  and  it  began 
to  plunge  violently. 

The  old  man  dropped  the  halter  and  stepped  back. 

Soon  it  began  to  stagger  around  in  the  most  incom- 
prehensible manner. 

Old  Way  burn  seemed  confounded,  but  in  an  instant 
the  shrewd  mind  beside  him  took  in  the  situation.  In 
a  quick,  eager  tone  he  broke  out, — 

"  I  must  have  her,  James,  I  will  have  her ;  how 
much  ?"  And  drawing  from  his  pocket  a  handful  of 
gold,  he  extended  it  to  the  old  man. 

"She  seems  sick.  Something  seems  to  be  the 
matter  of  her,"  he  answered,  vacantly. 

"Something  is  the  matter,"  cried  Robert,  fiercely. 
"  Can't  you  see  it?     Here's  a  hundred  !  a  hundred  and 


140  ^   BLIND  LEAD. 

fifty  !  two  hundred  !"  But  James  Wayburn  continued 
helplessly  staring  at  the  horse. 

"Do  you  hear  me?"  said  the  other,  shaking  him 
roughly  by  the  shoulder.  "Til  give  you  two  hun- 
dred." 

But  the  dazed  man  was  oblivious  to  everything  but 
the  horse.  *^  See,  she's  getting  worse.  I'm  afraid  she's 
very  bad,"  he  remarked,  stupidly. 

"  Say  I  can  have  her !  Jest  say  I  can  have  her  and 
you  may  name  your  own  price ;  say  she's  mine !" 

Still  no  answer,  and  every  moment  the  animal  be- 
came worse.  She  was  circling  round  and  round  now, 
staggering  slowly  with  her  head  hanging  almost  to  the 
ground. 

The  passers-by  had  by  this  time  been  attracted  by 
the  strange  antics  of  the  horse,  and  a  crowd  was  begin- 
ning to  gather.  The  owner's  gaze  continued  riveted 
upon  his  purchase,  and  his  friend  seemed  powerless  to 
distract  him  or  persuade  him  to  part  with  it.  The 
latter  stood  a  moment  baffled,  then  with  a  quick  reso- 
lute step  he  walked  to  the  mare's  head. 

"  By  God !  you  shall,"  he  said  firmly,  "  for  I'll  take 
her."  Seizing  the  halter,  he  started  to  lead  the  horse 
away,  but  it  was  too  late.  The  creature  took  one  step, 
then  its  legs  failed ;  it  sank  gradually  down  and  lay 
still,  gasping. 

"  Leave  her,  Robert,  leave  her !"  said  the  bewildered 


NEMESIS.  141 

old  man.  "She's  Ellen's;  she  ain't  mine.  She's 
Ellen's." 

Without  a  word  Robert  Hall  dropped  the  halter, 
put  the  money  again  in  his  pocket,  and  walked  away. 
He  could  not  stay  to  witness  the  humiliation.  The 
crowd  became  larger.  In  their  faces  curiosity  was 
blended  with  pity  and  amusement,  as  they  looked  from 
the  suffering  animal  to  the  helpless  being  at  her  head. 
Several  came  forward  and  volunteered  their  assistance 
and  advice,  and  one  who  claimed  to  be  somewhat  of  a 
veterinarian  went  to  the  nearest  drug-store,  and  re- 
turning, poured  into  her  throat  a  mixture  he  had  pre- 
pared, and  for  over  an  hour  they  labored  to  relieve  the 
creature's  distress.  But  suddenly  the  horse  began  to 
writhe  in  a  dreadful  convulsion.  She  ground  her  teeth, 
her  mouth  was  white  with  foam,  and  the  veins  in  her 
shapely  neck  were  swollen  almost  to  bursting.  At  last 
her  head  dropped  on  one  side,  she  gave  two  or  three 
deep  gasps,  a  shudder,  and  it  was  over. 

James  Wayburn  looked  upon  the  wreck  of  his 
dreams  and  hopes,  then  turnal  and  silently  entered  the 
house.  No  one  asked  a  question  and  no  one  ventured 
a  reproach.  His  face  told  plainly  that  his  heart  was 
its  own  Nemesis. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  BIT  UV  MONEY. 

The  camp  awoke  one  morning  to  find  itself  sud- 
denly interested  in  the  Eucher.  It  was  reported  in 
the  street  that  they  had  struck  the  Peerless  vein,  and 
the  Peerless  was  a  word  that  sent  the  blood  in  swifter 
currents  through  men's  veins. 

From  the  groups  gathered  upon  the  corners  one 
could  catch  in  passing  the  name  of  John  Howard, 
coupled  with  various  swelling  figures,  which  were 
probably  the  chance  guesses  of  the  miners  as  to  the 
size  of  the  pile  he  was  coming  into.  Rumors  were 
afloat  too  of  the  offers  he  had  received  for  the  mine, 
and  speculation  was  high  as  to  whether  he  would  sell 
now  or  hold  on  and  develop  it  himself.  Most  inclined 
to  the  latter  idea,  for  John  Howard's  pluck  had  in  it 
an  element  of  obstinacy  that  these  strong,  rough  na- 
tures trusted.  Spiritual  recognition  is  the  fruit  of 
kindred  souls,  and  there  was  not  one  of  these  stanch, 
heroic  miners  but  felt  the  same  grim  courage  in  his 
breast. 

The  love  of  excitement  was  queerly  evinced  in  these 
knots  of  men.  Each  claimed  to  have  learned  some 
142 


THE  BIT  UV  MONET.  143 

m 

new  fact,  but  if  the  raatter  had  been  sifted  it  would 
probably  have  developed  that  each  knot  was  making 
up  its  facts  and  then  exaggerating  them  without  mercy. 

There  were  some  items  concerning  the  mine  that  the 
public  was  hardly  in  a  position  to  know,  and  these 
the  miner  was  discussing  with  his  wife  as  they  sat  with 
the  children  on  the  stone  door-step.  Elizabeth  did  not 
seem  so  joyous  as  one  might  have  expected  after  lis- 
tening to  the  gossip  of  the  street,  and  she  was  arguing 
with  a  pertinacity  quite  unusual. 

"But  we  said  we  wouldn't,  John.  We  said  we 
never  would,"  she  was  insisting. 

"  We  didn't  know  no  sech  call  's  this  'ud  come  up, 
Liz'bith,"  the  miner  protested. 

"  We  said  no  odds  what  come  up,  we'd  hold  on  ter 
thet  bit  uv  money  agin  a  rainy  day." 

"  An'  ef  this  ain't  a  rainy  day  I  never  want  t'  see 
none.  When  could  we  need  a  lift  more'n  this  'ere 
blessed  minit?" 

"  We  need  it ;  yes,  I  know,  but  thet's  th'  last  dime 
in  the  world,  an'  ef  it  'ud  go  like  the  rest,  there  ain't 
nothin'  fer  me  an'  the  children  to  fall  back  on,  ef  you 
was  t'  get  sick  or  anythin'.  I  can't  bear  to  think  uv 
givin'  it  up." 

"  An'  I  wouldn't  ask  it,  wife,  thet's  what  I  wouldn't, 
ef  thar  war  any  doubt  uv  th'  mine,  er  ef  I  war  ven- 
t'rin'  it,  in  trustin'  to  the  lead." 


144  A   BLIND  LEAD. 

• 

"  Ye're  quite  sure,  John  ?''  she  persisted,  anxiously. 
She  had  asked  the  question  so  often  her  husband  was 
out  of  patience,  and  he  replied,  sharply, — 

"  Why,  woman,  ain't  thar  th'  assay  straight  from  th' 
office?  What  more  evidence  must  ye  hev?  An'  thar's 
the  vein  'fore  our  eyes.  We'd  a  had  'nough  out  to 
replace  this  money  long  'go,"  with  irritation,  "  ef  ye'd 
been  willin'  I'd  used  it  a  bit.  Yes,  an'  hev  fixed  us  all 
up  comf  table  besides." 

He  turned  his  head  away  and,  clasping  his  hands 
nervously  over  his  knee,  drew  two  or  three  quick 
pufiPs  from  the  pipe  he  was  smoking.  Elizabeth 
could  not  bear  even  a  semblance  of  a  quarrel.  She 
leaned  her  head  repentantly  against  his  arm  and  said, 
gently,— 

"  It  ain't  thet  I'd  cross  ye,  ye  know  'tain't  thet, 
John ;  but  I  can't  jest  bring  mysel'  to  puttin'  our  last 
cent  inter  machinery." 

"  Wal,  look  how  we've  been  workin'  thar  th'  past 
month,"  he  said,  shamed  out  of  his  temper  by  her 
gentleness,  and  making  amends  by  the  contriteness  of 
his  tone.  "  The  water  gainin'  an'  gainin'  an'  comiu'  in 
so  that  ev'ry  mornin'  we've  got  to  hist  till  nigh  on  ter 
noon  'fore  startin'  in  to  sink,  an'  hard  histin'  at  thet. 
Then  overnight  it's  all  back  in  ag'in.  Now  th'  pump 
'ud  clear  th'  thing  in  half  'n  hour  an'  keep  it  clear,  so 
we  could  see  where  we  war." 


THE  BIT  UV  MONEY,  145 

"  Yes,  thet  water's  play  in'  the  very  old  mischief," 
she  assented,  shaking  her  head,  "  more  special  on  yer 
health.  Ef  we  d'cide  f  use  the  money,  John,  thet  '11 
be  th'  reason  uv  it.  Ye  ain't  th'  man  ye  was  'fore  ye 
went  inter  th'  Eucher.  It's  broke  ye  up  consider'ble. 
Thet  cough  ain't  no  better,  ner  I  don't  like  this  'ere 
fever  comin'  on  now  ev'ry  spell." 

She  looked  anxiously  into  his  face,  and  he  seemed 
to  mistake  her  anxiety  for  reproach,  for  he  an- 
swered,— 

"  I  can't  help  it,  Liz'bith,"  much  as  though  she  had 
accused  him  of  some  guilt. 

"  No,  in  course  ye  can't,  man.  Fust  it's  down  in  th' 
warm  shaft,  then  up  in  th'  air.  Jest's  soon's  th'  mine 
can  stand  it  at  all,  ye've  got  to  hire  a  hand  to  take  yer 
place.  This  way  uv  doin'  'ud  kill  a  stronger  man  'n 
you  be  now." 

"  Don't  talk  uv  killin',"  he  said,  lightly,  stretching 
his  legs  along  the  neatly-swept  walk.  "  Ye'll  hev  me  's 
bad  es  yer  ole  father.  Ev'ry  time  I'm  over  he's  tellin' 
me  how  he  knows  he's  goin'  ter  drop  down  dead  some 
day  like  's  mother  an'  gran'mother,  an'  him  es  strong 's 
an  ox." 

"  He's  gittin'  flighty,"  whispered  Elizabeth.     "  He's 

no  more  like  his  mother  'n  a  cayote.     He's  a  Wayburn 

from  th'  very  shoe  leather.     Now  ef  Ellen  was  t'  say 

thet  or  Marcia,  there  might  be  some  sense ;  they  got  th' 

Q       k  13 


146  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

Clay  build,  an'  they're  like  es  peas  ter  the  hull  Clay 
tribe ;  but  pa, — he's  gettin'  inter  his  dotage,  I  guess," 
shaking  her  head. 

"I  reckon  he  is.  'Twas  time  Sarah  tuk  hold  an' 
run  thin's.  Wal,  we'll  gev  'em  a  lift  soon ;  we've  all 
struggled  'long  t'gether  an'  we'll  all  enjoy  the  flush 
times  t'gether.     Thet's  my  way  uv  thinkin'." 

He  drew  another  slow  puff  from  his  pipe  and  leaned 
back  comfortably,  as  if  already  he  was  enjoying  his  ease 
and  dispensing  with  gratified  liberality  the  wealth  he 
had  acquired.  But  his  wife  was  too  much  troubled  for 
illusions. 

"  Where's  Magee  t'  git  his  half?"  she  asked,  suddenly 
turning  and  facing  him. 

"  Wal,  ye  see,  Daniels,  when  the  vein  begin  to  turn 
rich  he  told  Daniels,  an'  Daniels  he  offered  t'  loan  him 
the  money  ef  th'  mine  come  up  ter  Magee's  showin'." 

"An' is  he  goin' to  do  it?" 

"  Yesterday  he  sent  down  thet  expert  uv  his.  Th' 
expert  he  made  a  zam'nation  an'  he  reported  favor'ble. 
She  showed  up  all  we  claimed  ;  th'  vein  gitten  wider  'n 
richer,  an'  he  says  ef  she  jest  holds  es  she  showed  now, 
we'd  got  all  th'  bricks  we  wanted.  On  th'  strength  uv 
his  own  inspectin'  an'  th'  expert's  an'  assays,  Daniels 
told  Magee  last  night  he'd  put  up  the  money." 

"An'  this  money,  what  share's  Daniels  to  git  fer 
puttin'itup?" 


THE  BIT  UV  MONEY.  147 

He  looked  down  over  the  slanting  roofs  of  the  town 
awhile  in  silence.     Then  he  said,  with  deliberation, — 

"  Wal,  thet  ain't  settled  yet.  He'll  hev  t'  git  what- 
ever he  asks,  I  guess.  Hugh  thinks  he  might  a  bor- 
rowed the  money  uv  Robert  Hall,  but  he'd  sooner  gev 
up  part  uv  the  profit  then  be  beholdin'  ter  any  one. 
Thet  Hall's  the  pure  quill,  though."  And  he  puffed 
out  his  approval  in  voluminous  clouds  of  smoke. 

"  Yes,  I  unly  wish  Ellen  'd  a  fancied  him  inste'd  uv 
Jerry,"  said  his  wife,  reflectively.  "  They'd  a  been  so 
much  better  suited." 

"Dunno,  wife;  no  tellin'  'bout  thet.  You  'member 
way  back  in  our  courtin'  days,  no  one  thought  ours  a 
very  likely  match.  An'  ye'd  a  been  wal  off  to-day  ef 
ye'd  takin'  t'  other  offer,"  he  said,  looking  up  with  slow 
earnestness. 

"  Bother  the  other  offer !"  impatiently.  "  I'm  rich 
'nough  with  th'  one  I  tuk." 

"An'  ye  ain't  repentin'  uv  yer  marriage?  Ye've 
hed  nothin'  but  waitin'  'long  uv  me,  Liz'bith.  I  couldn't 
blame  ye  ef  ye  war  disgusted  wi'  the  life  I've  led  ye." 

He  looked  into  her  quiet  face  with  that  expression 
that  she  had  learned  to  interpret  so  truly, — a  mute 
hungering  for  a  success  that  was  ever  denied^  a  craving 
for  the  praise  that  no  success  had  purchased. 

"  Ye've  done  nothin'  agin  my  wishes,"  she  said,  in 
comfort.    "  All  ye've  ventured  ye  did  with  my  consent, 


148  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

an'  so  I  war  ready  ter  bide  th'  endin'  with  ye.  Ef  ye'd 
gone  inter  things  es  I  opposed  an'  then  failed,  I  dunno 
's  rd  a  tuk  it  all  so  willin'." 

"Thet's  it,  'Liz'bith,  thet's  the  very  heart  uv  it. 
I've  hed  my  faults,  an'  they're  thick  es  snow-flakes  in 
winter,  but  I  loved  ye,  an'  I  let  ye  hev  yer  little  say 
an'  yer  idees  in  the  runnin'  uv  thin's.  It  'ud  a  sep'- 
rated  most  folks  goin'  through  all  we  hev,  but  it's  knit 
us  closer'n  anythin'  but  death  can  sep'rate  now." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  in  a  sudden  impulse  she 
took  his  large  rough  hand  in  both  of  hers  and  pressed 
it  to  her  heart.  Down  in  the  valley  the  dense  smelter- 
smoke  had  settled.  It  shut  off  the  creek,  and  lay  like 
a  murky  river  between  her  and  that  little  "God's 
acre"  on  the  farther  slope.  It  reminded  her  to-night 
of  that  other  invisible  river  that  flowed  in  very  truth 
between  her  and  the  children  that  slept  there.  She 
wondered  if  ever  a^ain  she  should  be  called  to  stand 
by  the  shore  and  watch  some  loved  one  vanishing 
within  the  mists,  or  if,  when  the  next  summons  came, 
she  might  herself  slip  into  the  stream  and  be  at  peace. 
But  she  glanced  at  the  children  playing  and  recalled 
the  treason  of  her  wish.  Others  might  long  for  death, 
but  a  mother,  she  must  pray  for  life,  only  for  life. 

She  wondered  if  her  mood  had  infected  her  husband, 
for  he  too  sat  in  revery,  and,  glancing  up,  she  asked 
him  of  what  he  was  thinking. 


THE  BIT  UV  MONEY.  149 

"  When  I  recall  all  our  misfortens,  'Liz'bith,"  he 
said,  "  1  feel  hard  an'  bitter  sometimes  with  God  fer 
sendin'  'em,  but  I  look  'round  an'  see  you,  an'  then  I 
say  to  mysel',  I'll  fergive  him,  I'll  fergive  him.  He 
sent  her  'long  fust  t'  comfort  me.  Many's  the  man  hes 
money  an'  p'sition  an'  all  the  world  can  gev  an'  ain't 
hed  one  taste  all  his  life  uv  the  hap'ness  I've  hed  fer 
seventeen  hull  years.  Yes,  I  can  fergive  him."  His 
voice  had  softened  and  grown  tender,  and  the  last  "  fer- 
give him"  had  almost  the  accents  of  a  prayer.  To  the 
listening  Father  what  truer  prayer  went  up  that  night 
than  this  hand  of  reconciliation  outstretched  across  the 
gulf  of  his  apparent  cruelty  ? 

They  had  been  sitting  in  their  old  resting-place  on 
the  step.  The  two  children  were  playing  about,  for 
the  baby  had  learned  to  walk  through  the  winter.  The 
little  ones  had  dug  up  the  sand  and  mixed  it  with  water 
from  an  old  tin  can,  and  several  round  pies  set  out  on 
a  shingle  were  engaging  their  attention.  Rosie  was 
seized  with  a  new  idea  now,  however,  and  ran  up  to 
her  father. 

"  Papa,  make  Osie  a  shovel ;  Osie  wants  to  dig  a 
mine ;  quick,  quick !" 

The  miner  went  in  search  of  a  stick,  and  securing 
it,  came  back.  With  his  knife  he  sat  whittling  out 
the  desired  shovel,  while  Kosie  leaned  over  his  knee 
absorbed  in  the  operation. 

13* 


150  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

"  I  tell  ye  what  I'll  do,  'Liz'bith,"  the  miner  said, 
returning  to  the  matter  they  had  left  unsettled,  "  you 
consent  willin'  to  the  use  uv  thet  money,  an'  ef  ye  ain't 
sat'sfied  with  the  workin's  in  a  month,  I'll  sell  out.  I 
can  sell  out  now  fer  a  tol'rable  fair  price;  Woods 
offered  us  thirty  thousand  day  'fore  yesterday.  Ye'll 
be  gittin'  big  int'rest  on  yer  money,  woman, — I  b'lieve 
thet's  what  yer  hangin'  off  fer,"  he  added,  teasiugly. 

"  No  sech  thin',  John ;  ye  know  better." 

"  Rosie,  yer  mother's  growin'  inter  a  reg'lar  Jew. 
She  won't  loan  yer  poor  old  father  a  nickel  'thout  his 
note  an'  s'curity." 

"  What  nonsense  ye  are  talkin',  John !"  said  Elizabeth, 
reproachfully.     "The  child  '11  think  yer  in  earnest." 

"So  I  be;  ain't  I,  Rosie?  You'll  be  papa's  little 
s'curity,  won't  ye  ?" 

"  The  money  ain't  no  more  mine  'n  it's  yours ;  you 
earned  it.  Ef  ye're  sure  it  '11  be  safe,  I'm  willin'  ye'll 
hev  it  in  course,  John." 

"Safe!  D'ye  think  I'd  risk  the  last  dollar  ye'd 
scrimped  so  long  t'  save  fer  th'  childern  ?  No ;  ef  thar 
war  any  riskin'  I'd  never  put  it  in." 

Rosie  chanced  to  glance  down  the  hill,  and  suddenly 
dropping  her  new  shovel  and  kicking  over  the  last 
baking  in  her  excitement,  she  went  bounding  down 
the  walk,  calling  out, — 

"AuntEllie!     AuntElliel" 


CHAPTER  XYIII. 

CbNGRATULATIONS. 

Ellen  and  Jerold  came  leisurely  along,  pausing 
every  little  while  to  look  back  at  the  camp  and  the 
swelling  arches  of  the  hills. 

Out  upon  the  road  a  freighter  was  belated  with  salt 
for  the  mills  above.  The  mules,  ten  span  of  tough, 
enduring  creatures,  were  straining  their  backs  and 
squaring  their  breasts  against  the  load,  while  the 
driver,  with  long  lash  and  ready  oath,  was  urging 
them  along  the  rocky  way.  Every  few  feet  he  was 
fain  to  call  a  halt  and  breathe  the  spent  beasts,  from 
whose  heated  flanks  the  steam  rose  in  a  cloud.  Then 
they  started  again,  with  fresh  oaths  as  an  incentive  to 
their  flagging  energies,  and  so,  slowly,  a  few  feet  at  a 
time,  the  long  train  wound  its  spiral  course  along  the 
steep. 

The  gibbous  moon  came  climbing  softly  over  the 
peaks,  a  pensive  beauty  that  turned  the  earth  into  a 
mirror  for  her  maturing  charms.  She  lit  up  the  smoke 
in  the  valley,  till  one  might  fancy  the  clouds  had  fallen 
asleep  on  tha  bosom  of  the  warm  earth.  The  rocks 
and  crags  were  leaning  over  following  with  startled 

161 


152  ^   BLIND  LEAD. 

gaze  their  unrecognizable  shadows,  and  the  slim  pine- 
trees  were  stretching  down  their  limbs  like  wizards 
and  drawing  weird  traceries  upon  the  ground.  There, 
upon  the  spectral  mountain  height,  her  beams  shone 
pure  and  cold,  reflecting  the  heart  of  a  Diana,  while 
here  at  the  yellow  base  she  lay  in  the  warm  languor  of 
a  Venus. 

She  was  throwing  her  white  arms  about  the  metalled 
spires  of  the  town,  crusting  them  with  silver,  and  she 
was  climbing  the  rounded  dome  of  the  court-house  and 
peering  in  at  the  curved  windows,  hanging  them  like 
curious  frosted  lamps  athwart  the  sky. 

Off  on  the  slope  above  the  camp,  like  a  huge  cen- 
tipede in  the  moonlight,  rose  a  high  trestle,  and,  run- 
ning along  the  top,  a  tramway  leading  to  a  big  dump. 
Below,  an  ill-defined  mass,  lay  the  bunkers,  and  stretch- 
ing away  the  smooth  curve  of  the  track,  along  which 
the  ore  was  carried  for  reduction.  Low  in  the  valley, 
piercing  the  smoke  like  great  gleaming  eyes,  were 
the  bright  fires  of  the  furnaces,  whose  light  throbbed 
and  quivered,  as  if  through  it  spoke  some  passionate 
human  heart. 

They  turned  from  the  pained  eyes,  and  glancing 
up,  saw  Rose  hurrying  along  in  such  reckless  eager- 
ness she  threatened  every  moment  to  lose  her  footing 
and  come  rolling  down  upon  them.  But  the  provi- 
dence  that    attends    upon   childhood   guided   her  in 


CONOR  A  TULA  TIONS.  153 

safety,  and  soon  her  arms  were  about  Ellen's  neck, 
and  her  sweet  baby  mouth  was  pressing  its  repeated 
welcome.  Presently  they  entered  the  gate,  with  Rose 
dancing  along  between  them  holding  a  hand  of  each. 
The  little  party  came  blithely  up  the  path,  and  Jerold 
and  Ellen,  stepping  forward,  seized  the  miner's  hands 
and  shook  them  heartily. 

"  We  supposed  you'd  be  expecting  congratulations," 
observed  Jerold,  seating  himself  in  the  chair  the 
miner  lifted  out  to  him,  "so  we  strolled  up  to  offer 
them.  If  you  have  any  superfluous  nuggets,  just 
pass  them  around." 

The  miner's  face  was  wreathed  in  smiles  now,  for 
his  happiness  shone  in  every  feature  of  his  trans- 
parent countenance.  His  wife  too  brightened  up. 
It  made  that  thing,  so  illusive  to  her,  a  paying 
mine,  seem  more  real  and  abiding  when  it  was  dis- 
cussed as  an  actuality. 

"  Not  to-night,  Jerry ;  you  must  give  us  a  week  or 
two  yet." 

"Any  time  that's  convenient.  We  won't  press. 
Only  remember  we're  ready." 

"  I  s'pose  ye  be ;  an'  so  be  we  oursel's.  We'll  keep 
the  fust  lot  t'  hum  I  guess,"  he  said,  glancing  towards 
Elizabeth. 

■  "Well,  you've  earned   it;  you  deserve  success  if 
any  man  does.     But  you'll  forget  your  reverses  soon ; 


154  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

they'll  only  be  recalled  when  men  point  out  John 
Howard  of  the  Eucher  and  tell  his  history, — another 
poor  man  who  struck  it  rich,  eh  ?" 

"  Thet's  'bout  it,  Jerry,"  he  said,  musingly. 

"  Do  you  know,"  Jerold  remarked,  after  a  pause — 
"  I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  tell  it  and  shake  faith  in 
my  mining  judgment,  but  if  I  hadn't  seen  it  with 
my  own  eyes  I'd  never  have  believed  the  Peerless 
vein  cut  across  the  Eucher.  I  made  a  special  study 
of  that  section, — they're  down  eighty-five  feet  on  the 
Gopher  below  you  and  hope  for  high-grade  ore 
soon.  You  know  the  formation  changes  more  or  less 
around  the  water-line.  I  examined  all  the  mines 
thereabouts,  and,  taking  the  strike,  I  was  certain  the 
vein  ran  through  the  Daisy  or  the  Elm  Orlu." 

"  Ye're  off  yer  base  fer  onct,  boy." 

"  Yes,  I  am ;  and  that's  what  puzzles  me.  I  don't 
feel  quite  satisfied  yet  that's  the  true  Peerless.  I  be- 
lieve the  Peerless  divides  near  the  end  of  the  claim, 
and  this  is  a  feeder." 

"  It's  little  I  care,  Jerry,  I  can  tell  ye,  whether  it's 
branch  or  orig'nal,"  he  answered,  cheerily.  "Th' 
ore's  thar,  an'  thet's  all  I'm  arter." 

"  Yes,  you've  got  the  rock  surely." 

"  Which  shows,"  replied  the  miner  with  satisfaction, 
— for  a  prospector  can  never  quite  overcome  a  con- 
tempt for  college  experts, — "  which  shows  thet  theory 


CONGRATULATIONS.  155 

don't  count  fer  much  when  it  comes  to  tellin'  a  feller 
whar  t'  strike  the  pick  fer  pay." 

"You  are  right  there,  John.  A  mine  is  a  lovely 
thing  to  speculate  upon.  You  can  get  so  many  the- 
ories about  how  the  veins  lie,  and  you  can  look  down 
any  one  of  these  holes  in  the  ground  till  you'd  take 
your  oath  the  stuff  was  there,  if  only  you  could  get  at 
it.  There's  nothing  in  the  world  a  man  can  be  so 
credulous  about  as  a  mine." 

"  An'  not  a  human  creetur  can  tell  one  thin'  'bout 
it  till  he  digs  down  an'  sees,"  went  on  the  miner,  ac- 
centing each  word  with  a  tap  of  his  long  finger  upon 
Jerold's  knee.  "  It's  thar  or  it's  not  thar,  an'  th'  one 
way  to  know  's  to  sink  an'  find  out." 

"  That's  it ;  each  foot  you  go  you're  certain  of  that 
one  foot  and  no  more.  Here  may  be  nothing,  and  six 
inches  farther  down  you  may  strike  a  fortune.  Again, 
here  you  may  have  a  good  vein  and  six  inches  farther 
down  you  may  have  none  at  all.  It's  uncertain  busi- 
ness almost  any  way  you  look  at  it." 

"  Yes,  'tis,  more  'r  less  till  ye've  got  the  lead  opened 
up  an'  showin',"  he  assented — but  feebly,  as  one  who 
might  perhaps  decide  to  recall  his  concession  later  on 
if  the  argument  required  it. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  the  Eucher?" 
Jerold  asked,  changing  the  subject  abruptly.  "  I 
went  down  the  shaft  one  evening  last  week,  after  you 


166  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

left;  the  sump  was  overflowed  and  the  water  drove 
me  out.  You  don't  work  it  in  that  condition,  do 
you  ?" 

"  Yes,  we  hist  the  water  mornin's.  It's  pretty  hard 
work,"  he  added,  in  an  undertone.  "  I  feel  it  most  in 
th'  chist;  but  I  think  I  tuk  cold  in  an'  out  uv  the 
water  through  the  winter  an'  it's  settled.  Howsora- 
ever,"  he  said,  aloud  again,  "  thet's  all  done  an'  gone, 
fer  we've  'bout  decided  to  rig  up  a  pump  to  keep  the 
shaft  cl'ar,  h'ain't  we,  'Liz'bith  ?"  he  questioned,  turning 
to  his  wife. 

"  I  s'pose  we  hev,  John.  It's  foolish  holdin'  back 
when  ye  need  th'  money  so.  Ye  think  th'  mine  a  safe 
'vestment  now,  don't  ye  ?"  she  asked  of  Jerold. 

"  I'd  put  mine  into  it  too  quick  if  I  had  any.  The 
vein's  there ;  there's  no  discounting  that ;  and  it's  rich. 
Do  you  know,  I  can't  make  out  yet,"  said  he,  address- 
ing himself  again  to  the  miner,  "how  that  Peerless 
gets  into  the  Eucher.  I  believe — by  the  way,  how  far 
down  have  you  got  now  ?" 

"  Ninety-two  feet." 

"  Close  to  the  water-line.  It  was  a  blind  lead,  wasn't 
it, — no  trace  on  top  ?" 

"  Yes.  I've  a  theory  th'  top  got  wore  off  little  by 
little,  judgin'  by  the  surface." 

"  I  wonder  now  if  that  could  be  a  feeder,  and  the 
croppings  of  the  main  lode  were  eroded  too  and " 


CONGRATULATIONS.  157 

"  Oh,  for  mercy's  sake !"  interrupted  Ellen,  depre- 
catingly, "  don't  get  to  speculating  and  wondering  again, 
Jerold.  My  brain  always  begins  to  grow  giddy  when 
that  subject  is  introduced,  because  I  know  it  '11  be  round 
and  round  in  a  never-ending  circle.  Let's  talk  about 
all  they're  going  to  do  with  the  money." 

The  sound  of  the  word  "  money"  recalled  Rosie  once 
more  from  her  baking.  She  crept  into  her  father's  arms 
and  sat  eagerly  waiting.  She  had  considerable  informa- 
tion to  impart  as  to  what  that  money  was  to  bring  par- 
ticularly to  her  own  small  self,  and  she  was  ready  to 
enlighten  the  company ;  but  as  the  conversation  became 
somewhat  animated  just  then,  she  was  obliged  to  wait, 
and  soon  she  had  forgotten  her  purpose  in  coming, 
and  was  rubbing  her  eyes  drowsily.  So  her  father  took 
her  into  the  house  and  laid  her  gently  upon  the  bed. 

Jerold  rose  and  paced  up  and  down  awaiting  his 
return;  while  the  two  women,  left  alone,  continued 
the  conversation  in  a  low  tone. 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  th'  venter  so  much,"  Elizabeth 
was  saying  to  her  sister,  "  but  ye  see  we've  been  run- 
uin'  behind  on  the  bills  all  winter;  an'  now  they're 
goin'  to  refuse  any  more  credit  till  we  pay  up.  I  allers 
felt  safe,  fer,  thinks  I  to  myself,  ef  it  do  go  wrong  an' 
we  hev  to  shet  down,  thar's  thet  bit  uv  money.  'Tain't 
much ;  but  'twould  pay  off  th'  debts  an'  keep  us  till 
he'd  hunt  up  a  job." 

14 


158  A  BLIND  LEAD, 

"  Yes,  but  a  few  weeks'  good  work  will  get  it  all 
back ;  and  they  won't  press  down  at  the  store  when 
once  they  know  their  money  is  secure." 

"  Thet's  allers  the  reasonin',  Ellen.  Ef  ye'd  trusted 
the  weeks  es  I  hev  ye'd  doubt  a'most  ef  ye  hed  th' 
money  in  yer  very  hand." 

"  Yes,  but  I  don't  see  how  there  can  be  any  question 
of  the  mine  now." 

"  Ther  don't  seem  to  be,  thet's  sure.  Varey  offer'd 
t'  buy  'em  out  last  week  an'  Woods  this.  They  didn't 
offer  what  he  thought  th'  mine  was  worth  by  the 
showin',  an'  he  didn't  take  up  with  'em.  I  s'pose  I'd 
better  gev  him  the  money ;  it's  thet  or  shet  down." 

"And  to  shut  down  now,  with  a  fortune  for  the 
taking,  that  would  be  folly,  Elizabeth." 

"  I  guess  I'll  consid'r  it  done,  then  my  mind  won't 
be  dwellin'  on  't."  And  with  the  calmness  of  a  settled 
purpose  they  joined  the  others. 

The  miner  had  returned,  and  he  and  Jerold  were 
back  again  at  the  mine, — its  formation,  its  history,  its 
prospects.  As  they  enlarged  upon  the  latter  the  little 
group  grew  almost  enthusiastic.  The  burdens  of  the 
past  were  forgot,  the  laughter  deepened,  and  with  hope- 
ful hearts  they  drew  pictures  of  the  future, — bright, 
beautiful  pictures,  whose  sunshine  was  undimmed  by  a 
single  shadow. 

Ellen  and  Jerold  arose  finally  to  return  home,  and 


CONGRATULATIONS.  159 

the  miner  and  his  wife  accompanied  them  to  the 
gate. 

"  Let's  see, — a  month ;  the  Eucher  '11  be  in  time  fer 
the  weddiu'  y^t,"  the  miner  said,  cheerily. 

"  And  I'll  put  up  the  champagne  to  drink  her  down 
in,"  called  Jerold,  heartily. 

As  husband  and  wife  stood  watching  them  the 
miner  passed  his  arm  lovingly  over  her  shoulder,  and 
in  the  moonlight  they  stood  for  a  long  time  together. 

They  spoke  of  what  had  gone  by;  of  the  three 
little  children  that  lay  sleeping  in  the  valley,  with  their 
graves  almost  visible  in  the  clearness  of  the  night. 
Then  they  talked  of  the  future,  telling  over  and  over 
all  they  would  do  for  the  little  ones  and  each  other. 
The  subject  was  a  happy  one  and  evidently  inexhaust- 
ible, for  the  clock  in  the  court-house  tower  struck 
midnight  before  they  turned  and  re-entered  the  house. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 


EELEASED. 


The  days  came  and  went,  the  bright  balmy  days 
of  June ;  and  at  last  school  closed.  Ellen  Wayburn 
was  done.  The  last  task  had  been  faithfully  per- 
formed, the  last  tribute  paid  to  duty. 

Through  the  years,  with  the  family's  dependence 
ever  pressing  upon  her,  she  had  thrust  back  all 
thought  of  her  own  hopes,  and  had  put  from  her  all 
contemplation  of  the  joy  that  lay  in  their  realization ; 
but  the  last  chord  was  broken  now  and  she  was  free. 
She  threw  herself  into  her  liberty  with  the  abandon 
born  of  the  long  repression.  She  had  not  known  her 
capacity  for  happiness  before,  and  the  possibilities  of 
her  nature  swept  over  her  like  a  wave,  filling  every 
pulse  with  sweetness.  She  was  happy,  deeply,  com- 
pletely happy,  and  upon  its  excess  of  gladness  her 
heart  pondered  continuously. 

All  her  being  was  transformed,  for  the  sensitive 
person  caught  and  reflected  the  new  spirit.  The 
weariness  had  gone  out  of  the  eyes,  and  joy  like  a 
clear  flame  glowed  there  instead;  the  pallor  of  the 

160 


RELEASED.  161 

cheek  was  tinted  with  the  faint  color  of  excitement, 
and  the  slow  step  became  light  and  elastic. 

In  the  merry  girl  flitting  in  and  out  of  the  house, 
singing  snatches  of  popular  ballads  and  slipping  away 
every  little  while  to  peep  again  at  the  snowy  piles  of 
linen  or  smooth  out  some  imaginary  creases  from  the 
lovely  bridal  robe,  one  would  have  scarcely  recognized 
the  worn  Ellen  of  the  school-room.  She  was  a  crea- 
ture to  whom  love  was  as  essential  as  air  or  light,  and 
in  its  radiance  she  unfolded  like  a  flower. 

To  Jerold  through  these  days  she  was  a  succession 
of  surprises. 

"  Why,  Ellen,  I  didn't  know  you  were  a  singer. 
You're  positively  talking  to  me  in  poetry.  Declare,  if 
I  ever  before  realized  how  handsome  you  were ;  and, 
Ellen,  if  you  keep  on  like  this,  you'll  be  as  frolicsome 
as  Ada.'' 

Such  were  the  exclamations  ever  upon  his  lips,  and 
to  all  she  only  laughed  and  tossed  her  head. 

It  lacked  but  five  days  of  the  wedding.  Jerold 
had  hung  a  hammock  a  little  distance  from  the  house, 
and  now  he  stood  negligently  leaning  against  the  post 
while  Ellen  sat  swinging  gently  in  the  morning 
sun. 

"  I  don't  believe  I  know  anything  about  you,  Ellen," 
he  said,  after  a  long  contemplation.     "  You're  not  the 
Ellen  I  proposed  to  at  all." 
I  14* 


162  A   BLIND  LEAD. 

"  Do  you  like  the  lost  one  better  ?"  she  asked,  mis- 
chievously. 

"No!  no!  The  latest  is  the  best.  She  has  all 
the  charms  of  the  other  and  a  hundred  that  are  dis- 
tinctly her  own.  Why  didn't  you  show  me  this  one 
before?" 

"  She  didn't  exist,"  she  answered,  laughing  lightly ; 
"she  is  altogether  a  late  production." 

"  It's  just  as  well,  perhaps,  I  didn't  meet  her  sooner; 
I  don't  believe  I  could  have  waited  so  long  for  her." 

"  You  traitor,  you  are  deserting  the  old  for  the  new. 
That  is  it." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  that  is  it." 

"  Still  the  old  one  was  the  better." 

"  Well,  the  present  incumbent  is  sweeter,  anyway. 
She's  prettier,  gayer,  younger,  and  fresher.  The  other 
was  dreadfully  sober  and  earnest." 

"She  had  everything  to  make  her  earnest;  while 
this  has  everything  to  make  her  bright  and  sunny, 
•That's  the  difference,  Jerold." 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  she  has ;  I  hope  she  always  will 
have.  Those  dreadfully  earnest  people  are  enough  to 
give  a  man  the  nightmare." 

"  Why  did  you  want  to  marry  her,  then  ?"  she 
asked,  smiling. 

"  I'd  never  seen  this  Ellen,  you  know.  She  was  the 
best  at  hand,  and  I  had  to  put  up  with  her." 


RELEASED.  168 

"Had  to  put  up  with  her?"  she  repeated,  assuming 
an  air  of  offended  dignity. 

"  Yes,  had  to  put  up  with  her." 

She  turned  her  head  away  with  a  coquetry  that  was 
bewitching. 

Coming  near,  he  turned  it  gently  to  him  again. 

"And  I'm  very  glad  she  is  gone,"  he  continued, 
"very  glad  indeed,  and  I  have  this  light-hearted 
Ellen  instead." 

She  looked  up  into  his  face  with  a  world  of  devotion 
in  the  depths  of  her  eyes,  and  he  stooped  tenderly  and 
kissed  the  pure,  sweet  mouth. 

They  sat  for  a  long  time  content  with  each  other's 
presence,  talking  of  nothings, -^those  thousand  noth- 
ings that  make  up  the  conversation  of  lovers  some- 
times, wherein  is  more  of  wisdom  and  joy,  light 
and  life,  than  philosophy  has  ever  dreamed  of.  Ah, 
the  power  of  a  pure  true  love !  How  it  broadens  and 
heightens !  How  it  illumines  the  spirit,  till  with  far, 
undiramed  sight  it  skirts  the  very  limits  of  the  uni- 
verse and  feels  itself  one  with  all  that  moves,  grows, 
and  aspires !  How  it  reaches  down  and  grasps  the 
thought,  the  purpose  underlying  all  things !  How  it 
pierces  the  mysteries  of  life,  and  solves  the  question  of 
its  darkness  !  How  it  leaps  the  barriers  of  the  Infinite, 
plants  itself  in  the  very  heart  of  the  Everlasting,  and 
calmly  whispers,  "  I  am  part  of  thee."   Ix)ve,  the  source 


164  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

and  essence  of  all  being,  the  inspiration  of  all  good, 
the  hope  of  all  time,  pure,  unselfish,  holy  love ! 

To  Ellen,  in  the  desolation  of  a  mining-camp,  it  was 
as  sweet  and  fresh  as  it  was  to  that  first  woman  in  all 
the  splendors  of  Eden. 

Immortality  had  breathed  its  germ  into  her  soul ; 
Eternity  had  stooped  and  whispered  its  low  secret. 
She  was  nestling  under  the  wings  of  seraphs  and 
breathing  in  the  fragrance  of  paradise. 

From  this  sweet  communion  she  was  suddenly 
startled  by  the  sound  of  a  voice  calling,  excitedly, 
"Ellen!  Ellen!  Ellen!" 

She  sprang  from  the  hammock  and  hurried,  with 
Jerold,  to  the  house.  At  the  door  they  were  met  by 
Ada,  whose  face  and  manner  both  bespoke  her  alarm. 

"Papa's  worse,  and  mamma  says  you  must  come 
right  away." 

Ellen  snatched  up  her  hat,  and  with  eager  haste  she 
and  Jerold  started  for  the  miner's  cottage,  and  imme- 
diately after,  but  more  slowly,  Marcia  and  the  old 
mother  went  toiling  up  the  hill. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

THE  MINER  AND  HIS  MINE. 

They  learned  that  her  father,  as  Ada  had  said, 
was  worse,  much  worse.  He  had  been  confined  to 
his  bed  now  over  two  weeks.  The  nervous  strain 
of  the  past  year  and  the  constant  exposure  had  borne 
their  fruit.  Though  the  pump  and  boiler  had  been 
set  up  and  did  their  work  efficiently,  they  had  come 
too  late  to  restore  health  to  the  miner.  Still  he  was 
not  dangerously  ill,  the  physician  held  ;  right  treat- 
ment and  care  would  bring  him  around  all  right. 

They  found  Elizabeth  exhausted  with  anxiety  and 
watching.  Their  repeated  offers  of  help  she  had 
refused,  insisting  that  any  presence  but  hers  irritated 
her  husband.  When  now  she  had  met  them  all  and 
told  them  what  she  could  of  his  condition,  she 
returned  silently  to  her  post  at  the  bedside. 

Through  the  night,  as  at  times  through  many 
previous  nights  when  the  fever  was  on,  the  miner 
had  been  delirious.  His  mind  wandered  fitfully  from 
events  of  his  boyhood  to  those  of  recent  years,  but 
chiefly  the  theme  of  his  thought  was  the  mine  and 
the  wealth  that  it  promised.     Sometimes  the  experi- 

165 


166  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

ence  of  the  winter  came  back,  and  he  was  digging 
away  and  fretting  at  the  small  results  of  his  labor; 
but  soon  he  was  hoisting  the  bucket,  full  of  rock,  of 
fabulous  richness.  Sometimes,  too,  his  mind  reverted 
to  the  little  home,  and  he  cheered  Elizabeth  with  the 
hope  and  assurance  of  success.  Strangely,  all  his 
peaceful  thoughts  were  linked  to  the  memory  of  his 
children.  In  his  delirium  he  was  with  them  all, 
the  living  and  the  dead  alike,  but  Rose  was  still  the 
favorite.  Even  as  his  mind  had  turned  in  health  to 
the  sweet  innocent  ones,  unconscious  of  and  apart 
from  his  world  of  strife,  so  now  peace  seemed  to 
come  with  their  approach.  In  their  imagined  presence 
he  was  soothed  from  his  excitement  and  generally  fell 
asleep. 

He  dropped  into  a  doze  now,  and  Elizabeth,  after 
sitting  beside  him  some  time,  crept  out  to  attend  to 
the  duties  of  the  house. 

Meanwhile,  Ellen,  satisfying  herself  that  there  was 
no  immediate  danger  and  feeling  that  they  could  be 
of  no  service,  urged  the  others  to  return  home  and 
leave  her  alone  with  Elizabeth.  A  number  in  the 
small  house  was  but  a  hindrance,  so,  with  the  under- 
standing that  they  should  be  kept  informed,  the  rest 
prepared  to  depart,  and  soon  the  three  passed  out  of 
the  little  gate  and  took  the  road  homeward.  As 
Ellen  stood  in  the  door-way  and  watched  them  de- 


THE  MINER  AND  HIS  MINE.  167 

scending,  the  old  mother  leaning  heavily  upon  Jerold's 
arm,  a  cloud  darkened  her  thought,  a  cloud  she  could 
not  explain  or  shake  off;  a  gloom  that  was  almost 
a  presentiment.  She  lingered  but  a  moment,  then 
putting  behind  her  her  own  fears  and  emotions,  she 
went  to  see  wherein  she  could  help  her  sister. 

Elizabeth  was  in  the  kitchen  walking  listlessly  to 
and  fro  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  physicians,  for  the 
family  doctor  had  been  up  some  time  before  and  had 
arranged  to  return  with  another  for  a  consultation. 

As  it  was  now  the  hour  of  noon  and  no  doctor 
had  yet  arrived,  Ellen  thought  she  had  better  set 
about  preparing  dinner.  She  opened  the  clean  high 
cupboard  to  take  out  the  materials,  and  what  was  her 
surprise  to  find  that  it  contained  a  little  oatmeal,  a 
loaf  of  bread,  and  a  small  pitcher  of  milk. 

"  Elizabeth,"  she  cried,  in  dismay, "  are  you  reduced 
to  this?" 

"  I  forgot,  dear,  I  forgot  it.  I'm  so  anxious  over 
John,  I  forgot  it.  I  didn't  mean  ye'd  know.  WeVe 
jest  run  out, — thet  is,"  she  stammered,  conscious  of 
the  little  falsehood,  "  I  was  jest  goin'  to  lay  in  more. 
Take  this" — and,  turning  away  that  Ellen  might  not 
see  the  slimness  of  her  purse,  she  drew  out  a  quarter — 
"  and  gQt  us  a  few  eggs,  I  ain't  hungry,  and  John  he 
can't  take  nothin'.  To-night  I'll  go  out  and  see  'bout 
gettin'  a  stock." 


168  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

As  Ellen  gazed  closer  into  her  sister's  face  she  real- 
ized for  the  first  time  how  wan  and  haggard  she 
looked.  "That  is  not  the  pallor  of  watching/'  she 
said  to  herself;  "it's  the  work  of  hunger."  Elizabeth 
seemed  to  read  her  thought. 

"  He's  been  sick  so  long,  most  three  weeks,  ye  know, 
child,  an'  ther's  unly  Magee  to  git  out  th'  ore.  The 
bills  piled  up  so  we  couldn't  git  no  more  credit.  It's 
been  a  little  close  pullin'  sometimes."  And  over  the 
pinched  face  and  into  the  curve  of  the  mouth  came  the 
look  of  endurance  that  had  grown  a  part  of  them. 

"You  were  wrong,  very  wrong,  Elizabeth,  not  to 
let  us  know  your  condition.  That's  why  you  wouldn't 
let  any  of  us  come  up  and  stay  with  you,"  said  Ellen, 
reproachfully. 

"  We'd  a  been  free  uv  debt  now  an'  comf'table,  dear, 
ef  John  hedn't  tuk  sick ;  an'  I  can  stan'  it,  yes,  stan' 
ev'rything,  ev'rything,  ef  unly  John's  spared."  She 
sank  helplessly  into  a  chair  and  burst  into  tears. 

Ellen  threw  her  arms  about  her  sister's  neck,  and 
endeavored  in  every  way  to  console  her. 

"  He's  going  to  get  well,  Elizabeth,  of  course  he  is ; 
why,  the  doctor  said  he  would.  He's  a  strong  man 
yet,  and  now,  when  everything's  coming  out  so  nicely, 
he's  going  to  live,  and  enjoy  it  with  you  for  fifty 
years."  By  cheering  and  soothing  she  restored  her  at 
last  to  somewhat  of  her  old  subdued  self. 


THE  MINER  AND  HIS  MINE.  169 

"There  now,"  she  said,  kissing  the  white  cheek, 
"  you  go  and  sit  by  John,  and  leave  everything  to  me. 
I'll  manage  and  run  the  house." 

With  a  faint  sigh  of  relief  the  overburdened  woman 
rose  and  returned  to  the  bedside. 

When  Elizabeth  had  gone,  Ellen  hurriedly  put  on 
her  hat  and  slipped  away  to  the  market.  Soon  she  re- 
turned laden  with  necessaries  for  the  house.  She  quickly 
set  to  work,  and  in  a  few  minutes  a  tempting  repast 
was  spread  on  the  little  table  in  the  sitting-room.  She 
called  the  children  from  the  yard  and  the  mother  from 
the  sick-room,  and  together  they  sat  down  to  dinner. 

As  they  were  finishing  the  miner  awoke,  and  catch- 
ing the  sound  of  their  voices,  called  faintly  for  his  little 
daughter. 

"  Bjit,  John,  dear,  ye're  very  weak,  an'  we're  to  keep 
ye  quiet  the  doctor  says." 

"  Let  her  come,  Liz'bith,"  he  pleaded.  The  mother 
yielded,  and  lifted  the  child  upon  the  bed.  She  nes- 
tled in  beside  her  father,  put  her  little  hand  in  his, 
and  commenced  in  a  whisper  her  pretty  prattle. 

"  Osie  jest  wanted  oo,  papa,"  she  cooed,  softly. 

The  father  smiled  dreamily  down  into  the  innocent 
face. 

*^  Oo  must  hurry  an'  pick,  so  Osie  can  hev  her  toys ; 
she's  tired  uv  waitin'  now ;  oo  must  pick  hard,  papa, 
hard,  hard." 

H  15 


170  ^   BLIND  LEAD. 

The  weak  hand  stroked  her  curls  and  patted  the 
soft  baby  cheek.  What  visions  passed  through  the 
tired,  hopeful  heart  no  speech  revealed,  but  that  they 
were  cheerful  the  faint  smile  gave  assurance. 

Presently  the  physicians  arrived  and  held  a  consul- 
tation. As  the  miner  was  conscious  and  resting  easily 
they  augured  well,  and,  in  proportion,  the  hearts  of  the 
little  group  took  courage. 

"Keep  his  mind  as  restful  as  you  can;  he's  ex- 
citable. No,  you  needn't  take  away  the  child"  (as 
Elizabeth  rose  to  remove  her);  "she  doesn't  seem  to 
disturb  him.  This  trouble  is  rather  hard  to  control  up 
in  these  high  altitudes ;  but  he's  doing  well,  very  well 
indeed.  Just  keep  his  mind  easy,  and  follow  the  direc- 
tions I  left  this  morning.  He's  got  plenty  strength 
yet  to  pull  through,  and  you  mustn't  be  fretting." 

The  miner  fell  asleep  again  shortly  after  they  left, 
rested  peacefully,  and  awoke  refreshed.  Later  in  the 
afternoon  the  fever  rose — it  always  did  as  evening 
came  on — and  he  grew  worse.  He  seemed  weaker 
to-day,  and  in  his  delirium  he  was  more  excited. 

"  Thet's  rich,  Hugh ;  thet  '11  go  a  thousand  ounces," 
he  exclaimed  once,  and  then  the  words  became  inco- 
herent. Another  time  he  had  come  home  successful 
and  was  enjoying  the  fruits  of  victory. 

"  Thar  ye  be,  Liz'beth.  Thar's  twenties,  twenties, 
an'  twenties,"  as  in  fancy  he  poured  it  into  her  lap. 


THE  MINER  AND  HIS  MINE.  171 

"  Take  'em  all ;  every  one,  wife ;  they're  yours  an'  the 
childern's."  So  the  afternoon  waned.  Occasionally  he 
was  conscious,  rested  or  slept,  then  passed  back  into 
unconsciousness. 

At  night  he  was  no  better.  The  physicians  came 
and  gave  him  a  soothing  draught.  It  was  only  the 
natural  course  of  the  fever,  they  said.  "There's  a 
good  deal  of  fight  in  him,"  commented  the  old  doctor, 
"and  he'll  fight  this  out;  just  keep  him  calm  so  he'll 
rest  all  that's  possible,  and  go  on  with  the  same  treat- 
ment. He's  all  right  yet."  And  the  cheering  words 
gave  fresh  hope  to  the  watchers. 

In  the  dusk,  after  tea,  when  in  the  old  time  the 
miner  used  to  sit  with  wife  and  children  about  the 
step,  he  came  to  himself,  and  reminded  perhaps  by 
the  hour  he  called,  as  he  always  had,  for  the  little 
ones.  He  kissed  the  baby,  and  asked  that  Rosie 
might  be  lifted  up  beside  him  again. 

"  Ye  mustn't  talk,  Rosie,  child,"  the  mother  whis- 
pered.    "  Ye  must  jest  lie  still  thar  b'side  papa." 

"All  right,"  she  said,  delighted  to  be  back  with 
her  father. 

He  drew  her  in  close  beside  him,  where  he  could 
catch  the  soft  fragrance  of  her  breath  against  his 
cheek.  Then  he  closed  his  eyes  and  lay  all  quiet  and 
contented.  The  child  looked  into  his  face  for  a  time ; 
presently  the  sweet  eyes  began  to  blink,  the   heavy 


172  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

lids  to  droop  more  and  more,  and  at  last  she  was 
asleep. 

The  mother  sat  by  the  bedside  for  a  while ;  then  she 
stole  out,  leaving  the  door  ajar. 

"  They're  both  sleeping  she  said  to  Ellen,  and  to- 
gether they  stepped  out  to  inhale  the  fresh  summer 
air.  They  stood  a  long  time  talking  in  an  undertone. 
Presently  they  heard  the  click  of  the  gate;  some  one 
was  coming  slowly,  very  slowly,  along  the  walk. 

"  Good-evenin',  Mr.  Magee,"  said  Elizabeth,  as  the 
man  drew  near.  "  I  was  goin'  ter  send  down  to  yer 
place.      We  h'ain't  hed  any  word  fer  a  week  back." 

"  No,  I  didn't  git  up  this  fur,"  the  man  said,  eva- 
sively.    "How's  John  the  night?" 

"Pretty  low,  pretty  low,  I'm  afeerd;  though  the 
doctor  do  say  ther's  good  hopes  yet.  He's  asked  arter 
ye  of 'n,  an'  ef  he'd  asked  agin  I  was  goin'  to  send 
down  fer  ye." 

"Yes?" 

"  The  trouble  is  he's  conscious  so  little  uv  the  time 
I  didn't  know  jest  when  t'  hev  ye  come ;  fer  I  didn't 
like  to  call  ye  'way  from  yer  work." 

"We're  no  workin',"  then  he  recollected  himself 
and  broke  off  abruptly.  "  Thet  is,  we're  a-waitin'." 
And  again  he  paused,  lost  for  a  way  to  express  him- 
self. 

"What  is  it,  Hugh?     Tell  me,"  said  Elizabeth, 


I 
I 


THE  MINER  AND  HIS  MINE.  173 

calmly,  though  her  eyes  began  to  grow  larger  and  her 
thin  lips  to  tremble. 

"  I  didn't  hev  nothin'  to  tell  ye/'  he  said,  doggedly. 

"  Yes,  Hugh,  ye  did.  I*ve  a  right  to  know.  So'th- 
in's  broke  an'  the  water's  in  ag'in.     Tell  't,  tell.'t  out." 

"  Nothiu's  not  broke,  nor  ther  ain't  a  drop  o'  water 
in  her." 

"Then  ye  must  speak,  man;  ye  must.  Ther's 
so'thin',  an'  I  must  know  it." 

"Wal,  yes,  ther  is  so'thin',  Mrs.  Howard,"  he  an- 
swered, slowly.  "  I'd  mend  it  ef  I  could,  God  knows ; 
but  it's  past  mendin',  thet's  what  it  is." 

"  Go  on ;  I'm  waitiu',"  she  said,  stolidly. 

"  Wal,  ye  see,  it  was  'bout  a  week  ago.  I  hedn't  the 
heart  ter  come  up  no  sooner  an'  tell  ye,  though  ev'ry 
day  I  meant  I'd  do  it." 

"Yes!" 

"  Ye  see,  I  was  diggin'  'way  straight  down  on  th' 
vein  so  's  to  git  out  the  rich  ore  quick  's  I  could,  fer  I 
knowed  yez  was  needin'  it ;  an'  fust  thin'  I  knowed  I 
struck  a  ledge  o'  granite.  Sez  I,  *  What's  this  mean  ?' 
An'  wi'  thet  I  sot  to  work.  I  dug  the  rest  o'  thet  day,  all 
the  night,  an'  till  noon  o'  the  next  without  onct  holdin' 
up,  an'  then  I  knowed  all  it  meant,  ev'ry  word." 

"  An'  what  was  it,  Hugh  ?" 

"The  vein" — he  lowered  his  voice  instinctively — 

"  the  vein " 

15* 


174  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

"  Yes,  man,  yes." 

"  The  vein's " 

"  What,  Hugh  ?     In  Heaven's  name,  what  ?" 

"The  vein's" — his  voice  sank  to  a  whisper — "the 
vein's — pinched  out." 

"  Great  God  ! — pinched  out,"  came  like  the  tolling 
of  a  knell  from  behind  them. 

They  turned,  and  there,  full  in  the  door-way,  stood 
the  tall,  gaunt  form  of  the  miner,  Hfe  had  recognized 
his  partner's  voice  and  had  come  thus  far  to  hear  his 
sentence. 

They  lifted  him  quickly  back  to  bed  and  did  all  in 
their  power  to  calm  him;  but  the  mind,  weakened 
before,  was  hurled  from  its  throne  by  the  shock,  and 
his  ravings  were  more  those  of  a  maniac  than  simply 
of  one  delirious. 

"Fire  th'  blast,  Hugh!  Thar!  watch  out.  Fill, 
now,  an'  I'll  fer  the  win'lass.  Wind  an'  wind  an' 
wind.  Hell !  this  's  too  slow  ;  they  '11  starve  'fore  we 
strike  it.  Hit  hard,  man,  harder."  Then,  as  if  the 
child's  voice  had  spoken  it  instead  of  his  OAvn,  "  Papa 
will  pick  hard ;  Rosie  shall  hev  'em ;  papa  will  pick  I 
j)ick !  pick !"  And  the  energy  of  fast-approaching 
death  struck  the  words  out  like  sparks  from  an 
anvil. 

Every  little  while  he  half  rose,  steadied  himself,  and 
stared  around;   now  giving  orders  about   the  mine, 


THE  MINER  AND  HIS  MINE.  175 

now  fighting  back  the  creditors  who  were  choking  him, 
and  now  assuring  Ehzabeth  she  would  have  to  wait 
but  a  little  longer,  a  very  little  longer.  So  it  lasted 
till  he  was  worn  out.  The  eyes  were  growing  fixed, 
and  the  hoarse  rattling  in  the  throat  told  that  the  end 
was  very  near. 

With  the  approach  of  death  the  clouded  reason 
cleared  for  a  space,  and  with  eager,  hungry  eyes  he 
gazed  up  into  the  loved  faces  around  him.  What 
visions  of  the  past,  what  sufferings,  what  joys,  what 
hopes,  and  what  despair  were  crowded  into  that  brief 
moment  of  intelligence  the  all-seeing  One  alone  could 
tell;  but,  fortunately,  consciousness  was  short;  the 
mind  was  adrift  again  and  oblivious  to  everything. 

There  was  a  pause;  the  spirit  was  wrestling  with  the 
darkness  and  struggling  to  regain  the  voice  that  would 
not  come.  He  wished  to  say  something,  for  his  eyes 
turned  towards  the  child  beside  him.  The  words  were 
shaped  upon  his  lips,  but  no  sound  followed.  At 
length,  with  a  fierce  effort,  he  raised  himself,  and  bend- 
ing over,  he  whispered  huskily  into  her  ear, — 

"Papa  can't  pick,  Rosie;  papa  can't  pick.  It's 
pinched  out, — pinched  out, — pinched  out."  With 
each  word  the  head  drooped  lower;  as  the  last 
"pinched  out"  trembled  from  his  lips  it  sank,  and 
on  the  same  pillow,  side  by  side,  the  father  and  the 
child  both  slept, — but  one  would  never  wake  again. 


CHAPTER    XXL 

WHICH  ? 

,  Next  morning  there  passed,  in  accordance  with 
that  beautiful  custom  that  prevails  In  mining  towns, 
a  messenger  bearing  from  house  to  house  notices  of 
the  death  of  John  Howard. 

Later,  deputations  from  the  Miners'  Union,  Knights 
of  Labor,  and  other  orders  held  -coui^il  and  made 
arrangements  for  the  funeral.  Some  of  these  organi- 
zations claimed  him  as  a  member,  others  honored  him 
as  one  of  the  camp's  pioneers,  a  citizen  more  respected 
as  more  known,  and  a  representative  miner. 

On  the  third  day,  the  delegates  met  at  their  various 
halls  and  proceeded  to  the  cottage,  to  accompany  the 
body  of  their  comrade  to  its  final  resting-place.  When 
the  bereaved  family  had  taken  their  last  look  and  bid- 
den their  tearful  farewells,  the  coffin  was  sealed  and 
resigned  to  the  committee  appointed  to  conduct  the 
funeral.  The  various  orders  formed  again  in  place, 
the  pall-bearers  took  their  station  beside  the  hearse, 
the  band  began  its  melancholy  dirge,  and  slowly, 
with  uncovered  heads,  the  procession  took  up  its  line 
of  march. 
176 


WHICHf  177 

It  was  an  earnest  body  of  mourners,  this,  that 
wended  its  way  down  the  hill-side.  Death  seems  a 
presence  more  near  and  more  real  in  such  a  commu- 
nity than  elsewhere,  for  each  hour  it  comes  without 
warning,  in  some  form  of  accident  or  violence.  Every 
man  stands  ready,  knowing  not  what  moment  may 
bring  his  summons,  or  in  what  guise  the  destroyer 
may  visit  him.  It  was,  therefore,  with  hearts  full  of 
reverence  that  these  rough,  honest  men  followed  their 
fellow-miner. 

They  marched  slowly  down  through  the  main  thor- 
oughfare, and  as  they  appeared,  suddenly  the  uproar 
was  hushed;  not  a  sound  was  heard  but  the  minor 
wail  of  the  music  The  man  with  the  dice-box  held 
it  in  his  hand  unshaken,  the  reveller  with  his  glass 
upmised  set  it  down  untasted.  Outside,  every  head 
was  lowered ;  even  the  little  Arab  pulled  off  his  relic 
of  a  cap  and  stood  head-bare  in  respect. 

Below,  a  rope  had  been  stretched  from  roof  to  roof 
across  the  street,  and  an  impatient  crowd  was  clamor- 
ing for  the  athlete.  He  stepped  to  the  railing  and 
ventured  one  foot  upon  the  rope,  but  glancing  up, 
he  beheld  the  long  file  and  withdrew  it  again.  The 
crowd  too  caught  the  echo  of  the  music,  and  quietly 
dividing,  pressed  back  along  the  sidewalk.  Then 
patiently,  with  bowed  heads,  they  waited  the  coming 
of  the  funeral.     As  the  procession  passed  and  slowly 


178  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

wound  its  way  down  and  down  the  slope,  they  still 
stood,  nor  did  they  break  the  silence  until  the  last 
turning  hid  the  column  from  their  sight. 

Past  the  creek,  on  across  the  valley,  moved  the 
dark  line.  At  last  they  reached  the  cemetery  and 
stood  by  the  newly-made  grave.  Here  they  rested 
the  coffin  tenderly,  and  all  gathered  about  it. 

The  simple  service  for  the  dead  was  read,  a  few 
honest  words  of  praise  were  spoken, — plain  words  to 
hearts  that  responded  truly, — the  coffin  was  lowered, 
and  John  Howard  was  consigned  to  his  earthly 
rest. 

They  waited  a  few  minutes,  standing  about  a  short 
distance  off,  that  the  relatives  and  nearer  friends  might 
have  a  little  time  to  linger  by  the  grave.  Then 
they  formed  in  place  again  and  returned  to  the 
camp. 

As  they  reached  the  street  corner  Ellen  whispered 
to  Jerold, — 

"  Take  Elizabeth  home  to  mother's.  I  will  go  up 
to  the  house  and  bring  the  children  by  and  by. 
They  must  all  be  with  us  till  the  newness  of  this 
grief  is  spent."  Leaving  them,  she  turned  aside  and 
took  the  path  again  to  the  cottage. 

Slowly,  oh  I  so  slowly,  now  that  she  was  apart, 
Ellen  picked  her  way  up  the  hill.  In  her  lieart 
was  a  struggle,  and  who  can  tell  its  misery  ?     What 


WHICH  f  179 

should  she  do?  What  could  she  do ?  Elizabeth  was 
alone  now  with  Rose  and  the  baby,  and  another  so 
soon  to  be  added ;  with  debts  and  no  means  of  pay- 
ing them;  with  a  future  full  of  nothing  but  priva- 
tion and  suffering.  Could  she  look  into  the  pinched, 
patient  face  and  bid  her  go  back  to  her  cottage,  to 
the  want  that  must  be  her  portion  ?  For  what  refuge 
was  left  ? 

And  she,  Ellen,  that  in  two  days  more  would  be 
a  bride,  could  she  bear  her  life  of  comfort  and  know 
of  her  sister's  condition?  And  yet,  and  yet,  after 
her  own  years  of  waiting,  her  joy  and  her  brief 
sweet  happiness,  could  she  put  it  all  from  her  and 
take  up  her  cross  again?  She  moaned  aloud  and 
wrung  her  hands  in  her  wretchedness.  She  passed 
the  house  of  the  neighbor  where  the  children  had 
been  left  during  the  funeral.  There,  in  a  corner, 
sat  Rosie  with  an  old  box-cover  and  a  few  peas,  and 
beside  her  the  baby  sucking  a  piece  of  meat  that 
had  been  given  to  keep  him  quiet.  It  was  a  picture 
of  loneliness,  and  the  aunt's  heart  smote  hard  against 
her  bosom.  She  walked  on  and  into  the  cottage 
alone. 

Everything  was  clean  and  orderly  as  usual.  Here 
was  the  polished  stove,  and  there  the  shining  tinware 
and  spotless  kitchen-table.  Here  was  the  white  smooth 
bed  on  which  the  miner  had  given  up  his  spirit,  and 


180  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

there  the  extemporized  couch  on  which  the  body  had 
rested.  As  Ellen  went  from  room  to  room,  she  was 
suddenly  impressed  by  their  barrenness.  She  had  not 
noticed  before,  when  the  immates  filled  up  the  meagre 
space,  what  she  noted  now,  that  the  house  was  almost 
destitute  of  furniture.  What  had  become  of  it?  It 
took  no  very  deep  thought  to  answer  that  question. 
It  had  gone  for  the  necessaries  of  life ;  it  had  gone  for 
food.  She  gazed  steadily,  as  if  fastening  the  picture 
on  the  memory.  Then  in  a  torrent  of  feeling,  in  which 
pity  and  generosity,  love  and  despair,  waged  terrible 
conflict,  she  threw  herself  down  beside  the  bed  and 
wrestled  with  her  soul.  All  that  was  highest  in  her 
called  to  a  sacrifice,  and  all  that  was  human  appealed 
to  her  to  take  that  one  short  step  and  secure  her  own 
happiness. 

For  a  long  time  the  crouching  figure  wrestled  and 
prayed,  while  tears  like  rain  fell  from  her  distracted 
heart.  The  watches  of  the  afternoon  crept  by,  the 
twilight  deepened  into  dark,  and  still  she  did  not 
move.  When  at  last  she  rose,  her  eyes  shone  with  a 
light  that  was  not  of  earth,  and  the  smile  on  her  lips 
was  resolute  though  very  sad.  She  clasped  her  hands 
tightly  across  her  breast,  she  raised  her  head,  and 
firmly,  but  in  the  faintest  whisper,  "  I  will  choose  the 
nobler  way :  guard  Thou  the  rest,"  she  said,  and,  with- 
out faltering  or  waiting  to  look  back,  she  passed  from 


WHICHf  181 

the  house,  crossed  to  the  neighbor's,  got  the  children, 
and  hurried  homeward. 

The  next  evening  in  the  journal  appeared  a  para- 
graph which  created  both  wonder  and  comment.  It 
read  as  follows : 

"The  trustees  take  much  pleasure  in  announcing 
that  they  have  again  secured  the  services  of  Miss  Ellen 
Wayburn.  She  will  resume  her  duties  as  teacher  with 
the  beginning  of  the  new  year." 

"What<jould  it  mean?  What  was  it  all  about?" 
Surmises  were  as  many  almost  as  questions,  but  to  one 
heart  in  Colusa  it  brought  no  surprise. 


16 


CHAPTER   XXII. 


A  HIGHER  CALL. 


It  had  been  a  long  day  to  the  Wayburn  household, 
that  succeeding  the  funeral.  Where  but  a  short  week 
before  the  soft  silk  and  laces  of  bridal  rob«s  had  lain, 
was  now  the  heavy  folds  of  mourning.  Instinctively, 
the  inmates  walked  softly  and  talked  low.  Their 
thoughts  were  full,  and  full  not  so  much  of  the  dead 
as  of  the  living.  Each  heart  had  the  weight  of  its 
own  loss,  and  the  heavier  weight  of  Elizabeth's ;  while 
unspoken  but  just  as  real  was  the  common  grief  over 
Ellen. 

Elizabeth  had  begged  earnestly  to  be  left  to  herself, 
assuring  them  that  some  way  she  would  provide  for 
her  little  ones.  But  Ellen  only  smiled  that  sad  reso- 
lute smile  that  seemed  now  her  natural  expression. 

When  she  told  her  decision  to  Jerold  he  received  it 
almost  angrily ;  but  in  vain  he  tried  to  dissuade  her,  in 
vain  to  reason,  or  plead,  or  remonstrate.  "  My  duty  is 
first,  Jerold,  before  even  you,"  she  said,  and  the  tear- 
less eyes  closed  that  he  might  not  see  what  the  words 
cost  her. 
182 


A  HIOHER  CALL.  183 

"  I  suppose  I  must  bear  it,"  he  answered,  and  noth- 
ing more. 

The  day  had  been  a  weary  one  truly,  and  the  fanaily 
had  withdrawn  early  to  rest, — all  but  two.  In  the 
shadow  of  the  door-way  sat  Ellen  and  Elizabeth,  each 
with  her  own  un uttered  sorrow. 

As  they  sat,  they  discerned  through  the  dusk,  close 
before  them,  a  man.  He  came  up  to  the  door  and, 
perceiving  some  one,  paused. 

"Good-evening,  Robert,^'  said  Elizabeth,  rising 
quietly.     "  You're  kind  to  come  to  us." 

"  I'd  have  come  right  soon,  Mrs.  Howard,  if  any 
word  of  mine  could  a  comforted  you." 

"  No,  words  can't  comfort  much,"  she  said,  drearily. 
"  Still,  people's  kind  to  want  to  comfort." 

"  I  thought  mebbe  if  I  couldn't  say  nothin'  I  might 
p'raps  be  of  some  help  some  other  way." 

"  No,  no,  thank  ye,"  she  answered,  quickly,  with 
that  sensitiveness  of  the  unfortunate.  "We  ain't 
needin'^  no  help." 

"  Me  an'  John  was  old  friends,  Mrs.  Howard,  very 
old  friends." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it,  Robert ;  but  we've  enough.  We 
don't  need  no  helpin'."  The  poor  woman  shrank  bagk, 
and  a  pained,  humiliated  look  flitted  across  her  face. 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  remarked,  "  I  come  up 
t'  see  Ellen  on  some  business ;  is  she  in  ?" 


184  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

Ellen  arose  from  her  seat,  which  had  been  concealed 
by  the  shadow,  and  came  forward.  "  She'll  go  in,"  she 
answered,  simply ;  and,  leading  the  way  into  the  long, 
low  parlor,  she  lit  the  lamp  and  stood  waiting. 

"  IVe  got  a  good  deal  to  say  to  you.  It  takes  time 
to  say  it  all  out  straight,  so  I  guess  you'd  better  take 
it  easy  an'  sit  down,"  he  remarked,  quietly. 

"  I  forgot  to  sit  down,"  she  said,  absently.  "  Excuse 
me." 

He  looked  at  her  searchingly,  as  if  settling  some 
conjecture  in  his  own  mind.  He  seemed  convinced, 
for  without  remark  he  came  to  the  purpose  of  his  visit. 

"I  hear  you're  goin'  back  to  teachin'.  Is  it  a 
fact?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  thought  you'd  gave  it  up  for  good  ?" 

"So  I  had,  but  I  decided  to  take  to  it  again." 

"Ain't  it  a  ruther  sudden  move?" 

"No.  I  don't  generally  take  such  steps  without 
reflection,"  she  answered,  smiling  faintly. 

"  Reflectin' !  Yes,  on  ev'rybody's  needs  but  your 
own." 

"  I  am  the  best  judge  of  my  own  needs,"  she  an- 
swered, coldly. 

"Ellen!"  The  voice  was  a  little  hesitant.  "I 
didn't  come  to  hurt  you.  I  wouldn't  hurt  you.  You 
must  know  that." 


A  HIGHER  CALL.  185 

"  Forgive  me,  Robert !"  slie  said  penitently,  realizing 
from  his  voice  how  much  she  had  wounded  him.  "I 
don't  seem  just  myself  to-night.  It's  my  own  choice 
this  taking  up  my  work  again.  What  I  feel  and 
know  is  the  only  worthy  thing  to  do,  and  of  that 
choice  no  one  can  judge  but  myself.'' 

"How  did  you  chance  to  find  out  it  was  the  only 
worthy  thing?" 

"Chance?"  she  repeated  after  him,  and  her  voice 
betrayed  that  she  in  turn  was  stung  by  the  doubt  his 
question  implied.  "  Robert,  there  are  times  when  the 
right  is  obscured  to  us,  but  there  are  times  when  it  is 
made  plain  and  authoritative,  when  it  stands  out  high 
above  cavil,  or  reason,  or  doubt ;  a  fact  not  to  be  ques- 
tioned, a  power  not  to  be  denied.  We  must  choose  it 
then  at  whatever  cost.  It  is  not  that  the  mind  is  un- 
certain," she  said,  slowly ;  "  the  mind  knows  but  too 
truly ;  it  is  the  heart,  the  weak,  selfish  heart,  that  I 
fear  to  trust." 

"And  why  the  heart?" 

"  Why  ? — you  ask  it, — why  ?  I  should  hurl  prin- 
ciple from  me,  and  conscience  and  right, — what  are 
they  to  me, — what  but  misery? — ^and  be  happy." 
With  nervous  haste  she  paced  the  floor. 

For  some  time  neither  spoke.  In  her  heart  was  the 
old  tumult,  and  in  his — who  knows?  His  jaws  were 
tight-set  and  his  lips  were  parched  and  hot. 

16* 


186  -4  BLIND  LEAD. 

"  Your  heart  speaks  the  truth,  Ellen,"  he  said,  with 
effort.  "Life  ain^t  nothin'  without  happiness.  No 
one's  a  right  to  call  you  away  from  it." 

She  turned  on  him  almost  fiercely.  "  What  do  you 
know  about  right?" 

"  Nothin^  almost,  nothin'.  But  I  say  again  no  one 
should  be  stripped  of  his  happiness." 

"  I  was  happy,  so  happy !  The  days  were  all  sun- 
shine, and  the  nights  all  song.  To-morrow  it  would 
have  been  mine  forever,  forever."  She  was  speaking 
to  herself  now,  not  to  him,  and  only  an  occasional 
tightening  of  his  mouth  betrayed  how  deep  her  words 
were  cutting. 

"How  beautiful  life  seemed!"  she  went  on  in  a 
dreamy  tone.  "  How  I  hailed  the  morning  and  the 
gladness  of  the  light !  How  all  nature  was  vocal  to  me, 
and  even  the  desolation  around  bloomed  like  para- 
dise!     How " 

"  Yes,  Ellen !"  His  voice  was  harsh  and  strained. 
"Yes!" 

She  turned  to  him  in  the  reaction  of  her  thought, 
and  her  reproach  was  heedless  of  consequences. 

"Why  did  you  come  to  me?"  she  cried,  bitterly. 
"Why  did  you  betray  me  into  thinking  again  upon 
what  I  had  given  up,  upon  what  must  never 
be?" 

"It  shall  be,"  he  said. 


A  HIGHER   CALL.  187 

"It  cannot  be;  we  are  both  beside  ourselves  to- 
night, and  we  had  better  keep  to  the  practical/' 

She  laughed,  a  faint  hysterical  laugh,  and  me- 
chanically straightened  some  books  that  lay  awry 
upon  the  table. 

"  Yes,  it  was  to  speak  of  the  practical  I  came  up 
here,"  he  said,  quietly. 

She  paused  waiting  for  him  to  explain,  but  for  a 
moment  he  was  silent.  He  hardly  knew  now  how  he 
had  better  express  himself.  He  ventured,  however, 
upon  the  thought  uppermost  in  his  mind. 

"  Ellen,  your  health  is  failin',  an'  it's  unjust  to  your- 
self that  you'd  try  to  stand  in  the  breach  any  longer. 
You  need  to  give  up  workin'  an'  take  a  long  rest  if 
you're  goin'  to  get  back  yer  strength." 

She  turned  her  head  away  and  her  lips  trembled 
slightly  as  she  answered, — 

"  I  cannot,  Robert ;  truly,  I  cannot." 

"And  why?" 

She  hesitated  and  did  not  speak. 

"  And  why  ?"  he  repeated. 

"  Simply  that  I  cannot." 

"  Ellen,  I  know  it  all.  Magee  told  it,  every  word. 
You've  got  nothin'  to  hide  from  me,  child,"  he  said, 
tenderly. 

She  looked  squarely  at  him. 

"  Then  you  know  that  I  cannot." 


188  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

"  That  oughtn't  and  it  sha'n't  stop  your  marryin'/' 

"And  how  not?" 

"Because,  Ellen,  the  pervidin'  for  John  Howard's 
family  I'll  do  myself." 

She  stared  into  his  face  a  moment,  then  the  great 
tears  welled  up  into  her  eyes,  her  bosom  heaved,  and 
the  hand  she  extended  to  him  was  unsteady  with  her 
feeling. 

"You  are  very  noble,  Robert,"  was  all  that  she 
could  say. 

"  Then  you  will  let  me  ?" 

She  did  not  answer  him,  but,  locking  her  hands 
together,  she  paced  the  floor  again.  All  the  desires  of 
her  soul  rose  in  petition.  Here  was  freedom.  The 
need  of  the  family  was  met.  What  further  claim  was 
there?  For  a  time  her  heart  throbbed  with  its  old 
delicious  ecstasy.  He  saw  the  struggle  she  was  going 
through  and  sought  to  tip  the  balance  by  persuasion. 

"What's  the  money  to  me?  I'm  givin'  ten  times 
that  ev'ry  day  to  others;  why  shouldn't  I  give  to 
my  old  friend's  wife?  She  won't  know  it,"  he  con- 
tinued, as  if  quieting  another  doubt.  "  I'll  fix  it  so's 
there  won't  be  no  charity  about  it.  I'm  above  that 
anyhow,  an'  I'll  do  for  her  better'n  you  could,  Ellen, 
much  better'n  you  could." 

Every  tone  sank  into  the  listener's  ear  like  a 
strain  of  delicious  music.     The  call  of  the  tempter 


A,  HIGHER  CALL.  I39 

was  in  the  words,  and  ah !  the  magic  of  his  seduc- 
tive voice.  Her  heart  leaped  to  its  release.  The 
old  rapture  came  surging  back,  and  as  in  a  delirum 
she  lived  over  the  days  of  her  short  happiness.  In 
the  impulse  of  renewed  life  she  took  one  quick  step 
forward,  and,  standing  close  beside  her  deliverer,  she 
extended  her  hand  to  accept  his  ransom,  when  sud- 
denly before  her  eyes  flashed  the  picture  of  Elizabeth 
as  she  had  shrunk  from  this  man's  hinted  assistance. 
Could  she  purchase  her  own  happiness  at  the  price 
of  deception?  Could  she  accept  for  Elizabeth  by 
stealth  what  the  honest  woman  would  scorn  to  take 
openly?  Could  she  betray  her  sister  by  committing 
her  to  the  bounty  of  her  own  rejectee]  lover? 

She  stopped,  she  stood ;  slowly  her  hands  fell,  and 
she  moaned, — 

"  I  cannot !  I  cannot !" 

"  What  is  it,  Ellen  ?"  asked  Robert  in  dismay,  but 
she  did  not  heed  him.  Her  eyes  were  raised  and  her 
lips  moved,  but  the  sound  was  inaudible.  As  she 
stood  there,  slowly  the  feverish  glow  left  her  cheeks ; 
her  lip  quivered  slightly  like  the  lip  of  a  little  child. 
Then  into  the  upraised  face  there  came  gradually  a 
beautiful  expression  he  had  never  seen  before.  Her 
eyes  grew  calm  and  trusting,  her  mouth  restful,  and 
over  all  there  brooded  a  sadness  and  a  peace  that  were 
born  of  a  conquered  spirit. 


190  ^   BLIND  LEAD. 

Robert  watched  her  in  amazement. 

"Ellen,"  he  gasped,  "you're  clean,  out  of  your 
mind." 

She  turned  to  him  and  answered,  gently, — 

"  No,  Robert,  I'm  in  ray  mind  now.  IVe  just  re- 
covered it." 

"  Then  if  you  have,  I  hope  you're  willin'  to  listen  to 
reason,  an'  let  me  have  my  way." 

"My  friend,  I  thank  you  sincerely,  but  I  am 
pledged  to  ray  work,"  she  said,  firmly. 

"  An'  you  won't  let  me  free  you  ?" 

"No." 

For  a  moment  he  was  dumb  with  surprise  and  dis- 
appointment. In  all  the  forms  that  her  objections 
might  take,  as  he  had  pondered  them,  this  one  he  had 
never  counted,  that  she  should  feel  bound  to  the  work 
as  a  duty,  and  he  was  silenced. 

As  he  looked  at  her  sitting  there,  colorless,  frail 
yet  strong,  noble  and  self-sacrificing,  all  his  thoughts 
rushed  into  the  one  supreme  desire  of  saving  her  from 
a  destiny  that  seemed  so  unjust.  In  a  burst  of  pas- 
sionate appeal  he  broke  forth, — 

"  Do  you  know,  woman,  what  you  are  putting  away  ? 
Think  of  how  you  love  him,  how  sweet  it  'ud  be 
married,  you  and  him,  bein'  always  with  each  other, 

an'  the  joy  an'  the  comfort  of  home,  an' — an' " 

But  a  low  muffled  sound  like  a  sob  choked  his  speech. 


A   HIGHER  CALL.  191 

"  Oh,  Robert !  How  selfish  I  have  been !  Do  for- 
give me,  I  entreat  you.  How  wickedly  cruel  I  have 
been  !"  She  reached  her  hand  to  him  in  the  return  of 
sympathy,  but  he  waved  it  firmly  away. 

"  Don't;  you  mind  my  feelings,"  he  said,  striving  to 
keep  back  his  emotions.  "  Them  don't  matter  much ; 
but  you,''  he  added,  with  his  old  rigidity,  "you  can 
have  love  an'  hope  an'  home.  'Tain't  right  you'd  give 
'em  up.     'Tain't  right." 

"You  have  borne  your  destiny,"  she  answered, 
gently ;  "  surely  mine  is  lighter  than  yours,  for  1  am 
loved,  and  always  shall  be." 

"I  hope  so," — he  spoke  in  such  earnestness  she 
looked  at  him  in  wonder, — "  for  your  happiness  is  price- 
less to  me,  an'  I  come  up  here  to-night  to  give  you  back 
to  his  arms,  though  I  tore  my  own  heart  out  to  do  it. 
Ellen,"  he  said,  turning  to  her  and  speaking  in  a 
voice  firm  and  deep,  "I'm  a  man.  I  can  read  men 
and  you  can't.  I  can  jedge  men  an'  you  can't.  I  can 
see  changes  that  you  can't.  Now  I  warn  you.  Marry 
Jerold  Bray,  an'  marry  him  now,  for  ef  ever  my  cross 
ud  be  laid  on  your  shoulders  it  ud  crush  you, — do  you 
hear? — crush  an'  kill  you."  But  her  mind  was  far 
away,  renewing  its  strength,  and  the  words  flitted  across 
her  brain  as  in  a  dream. 

"  No,  Robert.  It  must  not  be.  It  is  all  clear  to  me 
again." 


192  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

"Ellen!" 

"  It  is  useless ;  do  not  try  to  move  me.  We  must 
both  bear  patiently,  for  victory  waits  upon  the  patient." 

She  leaned  her  head  against  the  cushion  of  the 
chair ;  her  large  clear  eyes  looked  fixedly  ahead,  and 
in  them  was  the  light  of  a  quiet  content. 

Meekly,  reverently,  as  in  the  presence  of  a  higher 
being,  the  young  man  sat.  Something  within  him 
awoke,  strangely  responsive  to  her  words.  A  dim  re- 
flection of  another  hope  seemed  to  steal  into  his  heart. 
He  longed  to  speak,  but  seeing  the  pure  face  before 
him,  he  forbore.  Softly,  without  disturbing  her,  he 
departed.  And  presently,  when  Ellen  rose  and  glanced 
about,  she  was  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXIIL 

THREE  YEAES  AFTER. 

Three  years  had  passed  over  Colusa,  and  time  had 
brought  with  it  many  changes.  The  camp  was  having 
a  boom ;  people  were  flocking  to  it  by  hundreds,  ad- 
venturers from  every  country,  to  try  their  chances  in 
its  destiny.  The  small  mounds,  looking  in  the  distance 
like  gopher-hills,  that  marked  the  path  of  the  pros- 
pector, now  dotted  all  the  slopes.  Prospects  had 
become  productive  mines,  and  new  leads  and  strikes 
were  reported  from  every  direction. 

In  the  camp  three  big  smelters  had  been  erected  and 
several  large  mills  for  strong  companies  were  at  work ; 
foreign  capital  was  pouring  in  and  properties  were  being 
opened  up.     Money  was  plenty  and  times  were  good. 

In  the  street,  the  bustle  and  confusion  was  redoubled. 
Everywhere  were  groups  of  men  excitedly  discussing 
some  new  find,  or  canvassing  the  possibilities  of  some 
new  district.  Speculation  was  transj^rently  the  order 
of  the  day,  since  every  one  who  owned  a  dollar  or 
could  raise  such  was  staking  it  in  one  of  the  hun- 
dred new  ventures,  which,  however  unlikely,  found 
I        n  17  193 


194  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

investors,  for  chance  was  the  enthroned  divinity  of  the 
place. 

The  one  business  street  had  grown  now  to  three. 
The  primitive  log  house  of  the  early  miner  had  in 
many  cases  been  disguised  by  a  pretentious  front,  and 
was  doing  duty  as  a  grocery  or  a  saloon,  for  the  camp 
was  aspiring  to  the  dignity  of  a  city. 

A  new  opera-house  was  one  of  the  latest  additions, 
and  it  had  been  built  on  a  scale  of  elegance  that  would 
have  graced  a  town  of  twice  the  size.  The  best  artists 
stopped  over  now  to  reap  their  harvests  here,  for  Colusa 
was  no  longer  a  place  to  be  ignored ;  its  position  was 
sure;  its  claims  vindicated. 

And  the  prices  kept  pace  with  the  prosperity. 
Business  rents  advanced  to  incredible  figures,  and 
quarters  for  the  multitude  pouring  in  were  scarcely 
to  be  had  at  all.  Boom  was  stamped  in  plainest  let- 
ters on  every  enterprise,  on  every  structure ;  and  boom 
was  stamped  with  equal  plainness  in  the  faces  of  the 
people. 

Yet  back  from  the  din  and  the  strife  lay  the  same 
quiet  homes,  orderly,  pure,  peaceful, — homes  that  held 
high  the  banner  of  morality,  to  give  the  lie  to  that 
which  flaunted  in  the  public  street;  homes  in  whose 
sacred  bosom,  harmony  and  rest  set  their  contrast  to 
the  turmoil  without. 

Into  these  had  come  but  little  change.     They  were 


THREE   YEARS  AFTER.  195 

owned  mostly  by  the  older  citizens  of  the  camp, 
men  who  had  lived  out  their  day  of  venturing  into 
wild  schemes,  who  had  found  some  reasonable  invest- 
ment, mercantile  or  mining,  and  stuck  to  it.  Home 
is  to  man  the  antidote  for  business;  the  greater  the 
excitement  of  the  one  the  more  cherished  the  quiet  of 
the  other,  and  perhaps  nowhere  were  the  hearths  more 
truly  domestic  than  among  the  better  classes  of  this 
very  mining-camp.  • 

To  the  Wayburns  the  intervening  years  had  brought 
little  change.  They  were  not  directly  engaged  along 
any  line  of  the  camp's  growth,  and  so  were  not  in  the 
course  of  events.  To  Sarah,  however,  in  the  capacity 
of  storekeeper,  had  come  her  share  in  the  general  pros- 
perity. Not  in  vain  had  she  applied  herself  and  smiled 
from  behind  the  show-case.  Where  before  had  stood 
the  musty,  dusty  shop  of  old  James  Wayburn,  was  now 
one  of  the  most  artistic  and  attractive  little  stores  in 
the  camp.  So  much  had  her  skill  achieved,  that  while 
under  the  old  regime  seldom  a  dollar  could  be  with- 
drawn to  meet  the  family  needs,  for  the  past  six 
months  the  entire  expenses  of  shop  and  home  had 
been  met  from  its  profits. 

As  soon  as  the  business  proved  equal  to  the  strain 
Marcia  had  resigned  her  school,  and  was  now  a  quiet 
little  matron  in  charge  of  her  own  small  domicile. 

As  for  the  rest,  Elizabeth  still  kept  her  simple 


196  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

cottage  on  the  hill,  and  Ellen  still  taught  the  sturdy 
children  of  the  miners.  But  though  the  years  had  left 
the  family  in  outward  circumstances  so  nearly  as  it 
found  them,  changes  had  crept  silently  in,  changes 
unknown,  perhaps,  or  unacknowledged,  but  none  the 
less  real  and  lasting. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

A    PARTY. 

Up  the  hill,  where  so  often  before  we  have  followed 
them,  were  climbing  again  Ellen  and  Jerold  Bray. 

Ellen,  with  her  natural  reserve,  and  the  added 
duties  of  the  years,  had  gradually  drifted  away  from 
social  life,  till  now  she  seldom  found  leisure  or  inclina- 
tion for  visits  outside  her  own  family.  When,  through 
the  long  evenings,  or  on  Sunday  afternoons,  Jerold 
proposed  going  somewhere,  the  answer  naturally  came 
to  be,*^*  Let  us  go  up  to  Elizabeth^s."  This  visit  was, 
however,  also  one  of  business.  As  they  reached  the 
door,  Jerold  knocked  and  they  entered. 

The  house  was  altered  some  since  we  last  saw  it. 
It  had  an  air  of  sufficiency  and  comfort  now.  Indeed, 
there  was  almost  a  suggestion  of  luxury  in  the  d-ish  of 
tempting  fruit  which  Elizabeth  had  set  out  in  anticipa- 
tion of  their  coming. 

Elizabeth  herself  was  there,  dressed  plainly  but 
neatly  in  black,  and  appearing  like  her  house,  more 
healthful  and  prosperous. 

"IVe  looked  up  the  matter  of  the  lease,"  Jerold 
17*  197 


198  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

observed,  as  he  crossed  the  room  and  seated  him- 
self. 

"  Yes !     What  d ^e  find  V*  asked  Elizabeth. 

"  The  fellows  seem  all  right, — ^poor,  of  course,  but 
sober  and  industrious.  Tliey're  new-comers;  been 
down  prospecting  in  Arizona,  but  the  Apaches  made  it 
rather  lively,  so  they  got  out  and  came  up  here." 

"  What  makes  'em  want  to  try  the  Elm  Orlu  V 

"  Well,  you  see,  two  of  the  mines  down  the  hill  have 
dropped  into  a  pretty  good  thing  lately,  and  as  a  con- 
sequence the  sanguine  see  ore  everywhere  for  a  mile 
around.  You  know  how  it  is  with  these  late  arrivals ; 
they  think  they've  located  the  camp,  and  can  tell  you 
more  of  the  lay  of  the  leads  and  the  right  way  of 
opening  them  than  the  oldest  miner." 

"  An'  ye  think  I'd  best  let  'em  hev  it  ?" 

"  I  don't  see  what  harm  can  come  of  it.  Not  that 
I  expect  any  good  will  come  of  it;  I  wouldn't  count 
on  that." 

"  Don't  fear,  Jerry ;  my  days  uv  stakin'  on  a  mine's 
past.  Ef  I'd  never  heerd  tell  uv  a  mine  I'd  a  bed  my 
John  alive  to-day." 

She  rested  her  head  upon  her  hand  a  moment  and 
glanced  in  the  direction  of  the  window,  as  though  her 
sight  by  some  mysterious  attraction  was  drawn  through 
blinds  and  deepening  dusk  to  the  lonely  precincts  of 
the  valley. 


A  PA  RTF.  199 

"  Perhaps  yoa  might  and  perhaps  you  mightn't ;  no 
one  can  tell.  It  doesn't  do  any  good  to  think  of  such 
things,"  he  answered,  coldly. 

Elizabeth  looked  at  him  with  her  dull  pathetic  eyes, 
but  made  no  comment. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  mightn't  as  well  give  them  a 
lease,"  he  remarked,  after  a  pause.  "  You'll  never  do 
anything  with  the  claim  yourself." 

"  Thet's  mighty  cert'n,"  she  said,  emphatically. 

"These  fellows  are  enthusiastic  and  bound  to  dig 
somewhere,  so  I  suppose  they  might  as  well  burn  up 
a  little  of  their  powder  on  this  claim  as  anywhere." 

"  Poor  men  I"  said  Elizabeth,  with  pity. 

"  Poor  men,  indeed  I  Poor  foolish  men  !"  echoed 
Ellen. 

"  Poor  nonsense !"  said  Jerold,  with  contempt. 
"I'm  getting  tired  wasting  sympathy  on  men  who 
will  stick  to  mining  in  the  face  of  experience  and 
figures.  Statistics  show  that  about  one  in  eight  hun- 
dred strikes  it  rich  in  a  mine ;  yet  every  man  rushing 
in  here  expects  to  be  that  eight  hundredth.  Such  self- 
delusion  is  beyond  the  range  of  sympathy." 

"  Thet's  why  I  pity  'em  so  much,"  said  Elizabeth ; 
"ther  chances  's  so  slim.  Do  them  men  know  'bout 
the  Eucher  ?"  she  asked,  timidly,  of  Jerold. 

"  Know  it !  Woman  alive  !  Of  course  they  do. 
Everybody  in  the  camp  knows  that."     He  checked 


200  A   BLIND  LEAD. 

the  smile  at  her  simplicity,  and  she  hung  her  head  and 
was  silent. 

"I  thought  mebbe,  p'rhaps,"  she  said,  at  last, 
"they'd  be  discour'ged  from  tryin'  ef  they  knowed 
our  'sper'ence." 

"A  leaser  discouraged  by  another  man's  failure!" 
And  he  laughed  loudly  at  the  idea.  "Why,  other 
men's  failures  are  the  basis  of  his  hope.  If  they  had 
succeeded  the  ore  wouldn't  be  left  for  him,  would  it? 
while  now  it  lies  waiting  only  his  coming.  Besides, 
the  Eucher  experiment  narrows  down  the  possible  lines 
in  which  the  lead  can  lie;  that  increases  the  chances 
for  these  fellows  by  just  so  much.  Oh,  there's  no 
discouraging  a  leaser." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  she  answered,  "  sorry  to  see  any  man 
stake  a  hope  on  what's  got  so  little  show;  an'  sorry 
fer  any  woman  thet's  got  to  live  th'  life  uv  waitin'  an' 
worryin'  I  did." 

'*  You  can  set  your  mind  easy  about  the  woman," 
said  Jerold,  "for  they  are  all  bachelors.  Most  pro- 
spectors are  too  wise  to  load  themselves  up  with  a 
wife;  you  can't  shoulder  her,  like  your  pick,  for  a 
trip  of  a  few  hundred  miles  into  the  mountains.  I 
tell  you  in  these  mining  countries  most  women  are  an 
incumbrance." 

"  And  Heaven  deliver  us  all,"  struck  in  Ellen, 
"from  a  country  where  women  are  an  incumbrance." 


A  PARTY,  201 

Jerold  laughed,  the  old  hearty,  boyish  laugh.  It  soft- 
ened the  cynical  curve  that  had  begun  to  linger  in  the 
corners  of  his  faultless  mouth,  and  restored  the  frank, 
genial  nature  that  had  surreptitiously  made  its  way 
into  the  heart  of  every  man  and  woman  in  the  camp. 

"  I'll  declare,  Ellen,  I  didn't  know  you  had  so  much 
fire  left  in  you,"  he  said,  gayly,  but  she  only  smiled  in 
reply. 

"  I  had  the  lease  drawn  up,"  he  remarked,  turning 
to  Elizabeth,  "  when  I  found  the  men  were  all  right. 
You  may  as  well  sign  it.  IVe  given  the  usual  terms, 
— one-quarter  to  you, — ^and  left  the  time  short, — six 
months.     Is  it  satisfactory?" 

"  Yes,  ef  you  say  it's  right.  I  don't  know  nothin' 
'bout  sech  thin's." 

He  spread  the  document  on  the  table  before  her. 

"  You  sign  here,  and  Ellen  and  I  will  witness." 

She  signed  as  directed ;  Ellen  and  Jerold  beneath 
her ;  then  the  latter  folded  and  returned  the  paper  to 
his  pocket. 

"  Now  for  the  babies  !"  he  cried  out. 

It  was  time.  At  regular  intervals  the  kitchen-door 
had  opened  softly,  and  through  the  crack  a  pair  of 
bright  eyes  had  peeped  and  a  little  voice  pleaded, 
"  Please  now,  mamma  ?"  but  mamma  was  not  yet 
done  with  the  business ;  so  lingeringly  the  door  had 
closed  again.  "" 


202  ^   ^LIND  LEAD. 

Now,  however,  it  was  flung  wide  open,  and  Rose 
and  Jerry,  a  sturdy  boy  of  four  and  a  half,  came 
bounding  in,  while  after  them  toddled  the  baby  whose 
face  its  father  had  never  seen.  They  piled  upon  Jerold, 
drew  him  down  on  the  floor,  and  for  an  hour,  while 
the  sisters  were  visiting  in  the  kitchen,  they  rolled  and 
tumbled  about  the  sitting-room,  making  such  a  racket 
as  only  four  active  noisy  children  can  make.  I  say 
four,  for  Jerold  was  as  much  of  a  child  in  the  frolic 
as  either  of  the  other  three ;  more,  if  the  capacity  for 
making  a  noise  was  a  measure.  Jerold  was  every- 
where the  beloved  of  childhood ;  the  little  ones  looked 
upon  him  as  their  special  possession,  and  hailed  his 
coming  as  the  promise  of  a  good  time. 

When,  at  last,  they  were  all  tired  out  with  their 
romp  and  the  children  were  sitting  about  on  the  floor 
panting  after  their  exertions,  Jerold  arose,  and  looked 
at  his  watch. 

"  Why,  it's  nearly  nine  o'clock.  Ellen  !"  he  called 
out,  "are  you  going  to  stay  all  night?  I  promised  to 
take  the  lease  to  those  fellows,  and  I've  got  to  be 
stirring.'' 

She  came  back  into  the  sitting-room  without  Eliza- 
beth. 

"  I  think  I  will  stay  awhile  yet,  Jerold,"  she  said, 
in  a  low  voice.  "The  evenings  are  so  long  to  Eliza- 
beth alone.'  The  June  nights,  too,  recall  John  to  her 


A  PARTY.  203 

mind,  and  she  frets.  You  go  along  with  the  lease,  and 
I'll  come  back  by  myself." 

"  Won't  you  be  afraid  down  the  dark  hill  ?" 

She  laughed  lightly.  "I'm  pretty  old  to  be  afraid 
of  the  dark.  Now  if  you  had  said  ghosts,  I  might 
have  hesitated.'-* 

"It  isn't  just  the  right  thing,  but,  if  you're  not 
afraid,  I  guess  I'd  better  go,  for  they  will  be  waiting." 
He  bade  her  good-by  and  hurried  off. 

Partway  down  the  hill  he  met  one  of  the  men,  and 
delivered  the  lease.  It  was  still  only  a  little  after 
nine.  He  paused,  therefore,  thinking  he  would  go 
back  and  wait  for  Ellen,  but  suddenly  he  recalled  a 
little  party  to  which  he  had  been  invited  that  night ; 
and,  upon  second  thought,  he  hurried  home,  dressed, 
and  went  there  instead. 

The  house  looked  very  attractive  to  Jerold  as  he 
ascended  the  steps  and  walked  in  at  the  open  door. 
The  rooms  were  all  thrown  together;  the  place  was 
ablaze  with  light,  and  everywhere  were  gayly-dressed 
ladies  and  their  cavaliers.  If  sometimes  the  attire 
impressed  him  as  a  little  gaudy  or  the  manners  a  trifle 
provincial,  it  was  more  than  redeemed  in  the  general 
heartiness.  Welcome  and  hospitality  beamed  from 
the  countenances  of  host  and  hostess  and  true  good 
will  from  those  of  the  company.      Jerold  recalled  the 


204  ^   BLIND  LEAD. 

polished  hypocrisy  of  the  fashionable  circles  he  had 
known,  and  the  sincerity  affected  him  pleasantly. 

Dancing  was  the  entertainment  provided,  but  the 
musicians  had  not  yet  arrived,  so  games  had  been 
substituted  as  preliminaries,  and  when  the  young  man 
arrived  every  one  was  engaged  in  them*. 

In  one  large  parlor  sat  the  older  people,  distributed 
about  tables  and  engrossed  in  that  standard  diversion 
of  a  camp, — cards.  In  another  had  gathered  all  the 
younger  guests,  and  a  merry  company  they  formed  too. 
Here  the  festivity  was  at  its  height.  They  were  play- 
ing at  that  primitive  but  always  amusing  game  "For- 
feits," and  a  lady  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
with  her  hands  full  of  trifles. 

"  Here,  I'll  take  them,  Ada,"  called  out  Jerold  from 
the  door-way. 

"  Yes !  yes !  Jerry !  Jerry  I"  was  echoed  on  all  sides. 
In  an  instant  he  was  blindfolded  and  set  in  the  midst, 
and  Ada  proceeded  to  hold  the  forfeits  one  by  one  over 
his  head,  while  he  sat  in  judgment  upon  the  luckless 
owner  and  pronounced  sentence. 

Jerold  was  at  his  merriest,  ready,  careless,  frolicsome. 
He  was  always  fertile  in  resource,  but  to-night  he 
seemed  unusually  happy  in  his  inventions,  for  the  situ- 
ations and  exploits  to  which  he  doomed  his  victims 
kept  the  company  in  convulsions  of  laughter.  The 
unfortunates  groaned  and  pleaded  for  mercy,  but  he 


A  PARTY.  205 

was  inexorable ;  and  the  rest  upheld  him  in  his  most 
absurd  penalties. 

They  had  reached  the  last  of  the  forfeits  and  were 
about  at  the  end  of  the  sport,  when  one  who  had  suf- 
fered the  most  keenly  at  his  wit  and  had  unwillingly 
furnished  the  most  ridiculous  spectacle  of  the  evening, 
called  out, — 

"Make  him  give  a  forfeit  himself.  It's  our  turn 
now." 

"  No !  no !"  he  insisted,  striking  out  wildly  in  front 
to  ward  off  any  attack.  But  Ada  slyly  unbuckled  his 
necktie  at  the  back  and  pulled.  It  was  secured  in 
front,  however,  and  before  she  could  unfasten  it  he  had 
torn  the  bandage  from  his  eyes  and  caught  in  his  both 
the  hands  that  were  encircling  his  neck.  She  struggled 
still  at  the  necktie,  but  firm  and  close  her  arms  were 
pinioned,  and  she  was  powerless. 

A  man  passing  along  the  street  at  this  moment  glanced 
in  through  the  open  window ;  his  eyes  swept  leisurely 
over  the  company,  but  in  an  instant  were  riveted  upon 
the  couple  in  the  centre.  Like  the  balls  of  a  tiger  his 
eyes  gleamed  a  moment,  then  his  fists  clinched;  he 
leaped  forward,  and,  placing  his  hand  upon  the  sill, 
he  stooped  to  clear  it  at  a  bound,  but  as  suddenly  he 
paused;  his  hand  left  the  sill  again,  and  slowly  he 
turned  and  walked  away. 

.  A  little  later,  as  full  of  his  thoughts  he  strode  along, 
18 


206  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

he  saw  the  figure  of  a  woman  coming  quietly  down  the 
hill-side.  He  stepped  into  the  shadow  that  she  might 
not  see  him,  for  he  shrank  from  the  sight  of  his  kind 
to-night  and  wished  for  solitude. 

'  As  she  came  quickly  along,  she  passed  so  close  her 
sleeve  touched  him  where  he  stood.  He  glanced  into 
her  face  and  started,  but  he  did  not  speak  or  address 
her.  Silently,  at  a  distance,  he  followed  after,  keeping 
her  always  in  sight.  Thus  they  walked  on  to  the  out- 
skirts of  the  camp,  nor  did  he  leave  her  till  she  had 
passed  through  the  gate  and  the  closing  of  the  door 
told  him  she  was  at  home  and  safe. 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

A  GREAT   DAY. 

Perhaps  the  greatest  change  that  could  be  charged 
against  the  intervening  years  had  come  in  the  life  of 
old  James  Wayburn.  His  repeated  sins  in  diverting 
money  to  foreign  uses,  and  his  innocent  but  fatal  in- 
terferences in  his  daughter's  sales,  had  at  last  brought 
about  a  serious  encounter  with  that  choleric  young 
lady,  in  which  the  result  was  not  altogether  favorable 
to  the  ex-proprietor.  Little  by  little  the  entire  man- 
agement was  usurped  by  the  adroit  Sarah,  and  the  old 
gentleman  was  deprived  of  even  the  poor  privilege 
of  playing  at  storekeeping. 

This  bore  upon  him  the  harder  in  that  it  shut  him 
off  from  all  chance  for  indulging  his  little  hobby,  so 
gradually  he  withdrew  entirely  from  the  place  that 
seemed  his  own  no  longer,  and,  in  the  absolute  hunger 
for  a  speculation,  took  to  unearthing  the  long-buried 
treasures  of  the  barn-loft.  But  barter  was  very  stag- 
nant in  the  camp.  It  was  taking  on  the  methods  as 
well  as  the  airs  of  a  city. 

One  day  an  idea  seemed  to  come  to  the  old  man. 

207 


208  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

He  paced  excitedly  up  and  down  the  yard  and  mum- 
bled ;  he  leaned  against  the  house  and  figured ;  then 
smiled,  looked  mysterious,  and  walked  again.  As  a 
hen  over  her  eggs  he  brooded  many  days  over  his  idea, 
and  at  last  it  was  ushered  into  active  existence. 

One  Monday  morning  he  put  on  his  oldest  suit  of 
clothes,  tossed  aside  his  hat  as  a  superfluity,  asked  his 
wife  for  the  loan  of  her  rag-bag,  locked  himself  into 
the  barn,  and  was  invisible  till  noon.  What  was  on 
the  tapis  no  one  ventured  to  ask.  When  his  wife  re- 
monstrated gently  upon  the  awful  condition  in  which 
he  presented  himself  at  dinner,  he  looked  so  injured 
the  family  knew  this  was  another  of  his  many  schemes, 
and  forbore  questioning. 

Throughout  the  afternoon  he  was  lost  to  sight  again ; 
but  sounds  of  pulling,  hammering,  and  rubbing  led 
them  to  suspect  that  James  Wayburn  was  house-clean- 
ing. The  next  day  and  the  next  the  old  man  continued 
in  his  solitude,  and  so  for  a  week. 

By  that  time  his  clothes  were  so  tattered  and  be- 
grimed and  his  whole  appearance  so  woe-begone,  that 
he  might  have  passed  for  the  commonest  tramp  in  the 
country.  His  enthusiasm,  however,  never  left  him. 
All  through  the  week  his  thin  voice  came  through  the 
chinks  of  the  barn  piping  some  melody  of  other  days. 
At  meal-time  he  kept  winking  knowingly,  as  if  to  give 
a  sly  hint  of  the  secret  he  had  to  himself,  and  smiling 


A   GREAT  DAK  209 

in  anticipation  of  the  treat  he  had  prepared.     In  spite 
of  the  dirt  and  dilapidation  he  was  happy. 

At  last,  one  morning,  he  walked  down-street  and 
returned  with  a  truck.  The  horses  stopped  at  the 
barn-door,  and  two  stout  men  began  to  load  up.  Such 
a  collection !  The  small  boys  from  the  whole  camp 
were  gathered  to  watch  and  wonder.  The  loaded 
truck  drove  away,  but  returned  presently  and  loaded 
up  again ;  so  it  continued  all  day,  and  when  evening 
came  the  barn  was  empty. 

That  night  James  Wayburn  doffed  the  remnants  of 
his  old  clothes,  and  in  the  morning  he  appeared  at 
breakfast  in  his  holiday  best,  with  shining  boots,  smooth 
hair,  and  a  white  necktie. 

He  hurried  away  from  the  table  without  a  word, 
and  went  off  smiling  and  muttering  to  himself, — 

"  What  an  old  dolt  not  to  think  of  it  before  I  My 
mind  must  be  getting  weakish.  The  camp's  full  of 
men,  and  they  '11  go  off  like  hot  cakes.  It  '11  be  fine 
to  see  other  folks  bidding  on  my  traps  for  once;  IVe 
bid  on  theirs  times  enough.  Mercy !  how  the  long  fast 
has  whetted  up  my  appetite !  I'll  have  a  day  of  it  this 
time."  So  he  talked  along  till  he  came  to  Rogers's 
auction-house. 

Here  a  great  red  flag  was  suspended  over  the  middle 
of  the  street,  and  the  incessant  ringing  of  a  cracked  bell 
told  the  public  that  a  special  auctipn  was  to  be  held, 
o  18* 


210  ^   BLIND  LEAD. 

The  store  was  crowded  already  with  people,  mostly 
loungers  or  miners  ofif  shift.  And  gradually  the  sight 
of  the  crowd  attracted  others,  till  the  men  stood  all 
about  the  door  and  on  the  sidewalk. 

Then  the  work  commenced;  and  all  day  long  the 
hammer  of  the  doughty  Rogers  was  heard  striking 
away  James  Wayburn's  treasures.  The  simple  crea- 
ture stood  himself  by  the  auctioneer,  a  veteran  in  the 
midst  of  carnage.  Ever  in  the  height  of  the  din  his 
voice  could  be  heard  urging  them  on.  "  Bid  up,  gen- 
tlemen !  bid  up  !  Now's  your  chance.  Secure  a  bar- 
gain while  you  can."  And  the  honest  face  of  the  old 
man  appeared  a  voucher  for  many  an  article  that  their 
own  five  senses  told  them  was  worthless.  Prices  were 
nothing.  When  there  was  no  bid  he  turned  to  some 
one  in  the  audience,  "Give  me  your  knife,  your 
tobacco,  anything  for  it." 

He  looked  upon  the  affair  as  a  sacrifice  in  his  honor, 
a  holocaust  in  which  he,  James  Wayburn,  was  devotee, 
high-priest,  and  divinity  all  in  one.  What  wonder  if 
he  was  beside  himself  with  joy  and  excitement? 

He  did  not  go  home  for  dinner,  but  paced  majestic- 
ally up  and  down  the  counter  till  the  entertainment 
was  renewed.  Then  he  took  up  his  position  beside  the 
auctioneer  again,  and  continued  his  oflBces  as  assist- 
ant. The  interest  and  delight  lasted  all  day.  When 
the  closing  hour  arrived  and  the  crowd  was  dispersing. 


A   GREAT  DA r.  211 

the  old  man  walked  up  to  the  auctioneer  and  said, 
solemnly,  "  This  has  been  the  greatest  day,  Mr.  Rogers, 
the  greatest  day  in  my  life."  And  the  wily  Rogers  re- 
sponded "  Yes,  indeed,"  as  solemnly. 

Late  in  the  evening  one  load  drove  back  to  the 
barn-door.  That  was  what  remained,  that  he  could 
neither  sell,  trade,  nor  give  away.  Shortly  after,  with 
a  face  fairly  radiant  in  its  happiness,  home  walked  old 
James  Wayburn.  Standing  squarely  in  the  middle  of 
the  sitting-room,  he  counted  out  slowly  and  laid  in 
heaps  upon  the  table  three  twenties,  four  tens,  eight 
fives,  seven  ones,  and  some  change. 

"Mrs.  Wayburn,"  he  said,  "didn't  I  tell  you  Pd 
make  money  out  of  them  things  yet  ?  Well,  there  it 
is."  And  as  slowly,  gathering  it  all  back,  he  walked 
into  the  little  bedroom  and  retired. 

That  night  the  voices  of  the  old  couple  were  heard 
for  a  long  time  in  discussion,  she  coaxing  and  he  pro- 
testing. His  tones,  however,  grew  gradually  more  and 
more  amicable  as  hers  more  persuasive;  and  at  last 
they  seemed  to  have  come  to  an  understanding. 

In  the  morning  the  discussion  was  explained,  for  the 
old  mother  whispered  to  Ellen,  "  He  gave  me  a  hun- 
dred for  Ada's  graduatin',  but  I  couldn'  git  the  other 
forty  odd  out  of  him  no  way." 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 


The  summer  had  come  again,  and  announced  itself 
in  one  of  those  premature  spells  of  intense  heat  that 
sometimes  occur  in  June.  The  past  few  days  had  been 
fairly  sultry,  and  Colusa,  unsheltered  by  trees  or 
foliage  of  any  kind,  lay  baking  in  the  sun  of  early 
afternoon. 

At  the  Wayburn  cottage  the  shades  had  been  drawn 
close  to  keep  out  the  blinding  glare,  everywhere  but 
in  the  little  sitting-room.  The  afternoon  sun  did  not 
shine  here,  and  doors  and  windows  were  thrown  wide 
open  to  give  free  welcome  to  any  chance  breath  of  a 
breeze  that  might  be  tempted  to  venture  in. 

At  one  of  these  open  windows  a  familiar  face  ap- 
peared, and  a  familiar  voice  called  out, — 

"  Hello !  where's  everybody  ?" 

"  Everybody's  gone  to  school ;  that  is,  your  every- 
body," answered  a  mischievous  voice  from  the  sofa. 

"  And  why  hasn't  somebody  else's  everybody  like- 
wise?"     And   Jerold   Bray,   following   the   impulse, 
stepped  over  the  window-sill  and  stood  witliin. 
212 


JEROLD'S  DIVIDERS.  213 

"What!  you  sick?"  he  inquired,  perceiving  that 
Ada  was  lying  down. 

"No,  I'm  not  sick;  I  despise  invalids,"  she  said, 
straightening  immediately. 

"  She's  been  quite  sicjc,  Jerry,  yesterday  an'  th'  one 
afore ;  an'  I  didn't  think  it  right  she'd  be  confined  to 
the  school-room  this  hot  weather,"  said  the  old  mother. 

"  But  I'm  all  well,"  pleaded  Ada,  pettishly.  "  Three 
whole  days  lost,  and  so  near  commencement  too." 

"More's  the  reason  you'd  ought  to  rest.  You'll 
want  all  your  strength  for  them  last  days.  It's  a 
tryin'  time,  child." 

"Oh,  grandma!  grandma!  What  a  dear  old  un- 
reasonable you  are!" 

"  That's  right,  ma ;  stick  to  it,  and  I'll  help  you," 
said  Jerold. 

"  What  will  you  help  her  do  ?  Read  me  a  lecture  ? 
Well,  I'm  ready."  She  gave  the  quick  toss  of  her 
head  that  was  always  her  declaration  of  war. 

Jerold  did  not  wait  for  parleying,  but  beat  a  hasty 
retreat  across  the  room. 

"  A  pretty  welcome  you  give  a  fellow,  don't  you  ?" 
he  said,  looking  at  her  sitting  in  threatening  state  upon 
the  sofa. 

"You  mustn't  act  so,  Ada,"  remonstrated  the 
grandmother. 

"  Well,  I  guess  he  acts  just  as  badly  as  I  do." 


214  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

**  Yes !  yes !  Ye'r  like  two  children  ;  jest  flint  an' 
tinder  to  each  other.  Why  can^t  you  agree  and  live 
peaceful?*'  sighed  the  grandmother. 

Thus  rebuked,  Ada  settled  herself  with  rigid  pro- 
priety in  the  corner,  and  Jerold  came  over  and  seated 
himself  beside  her  so  demurely  that  Mrs.  Wayburn, 
glancing  up,  was  unable  to  restrain  her  laughter. 

"  You  two  '11  be  the  death  of  me  yet,''  she  said. 

Whereupon  the  assumed  decorum  vanished  and  the 
pair  returned  to  their  customary  antics. 

"  I  must  be  hurrying  along,"  Jerold  remarked,  pres- 
ently. "  I've  an  appointment  at  the  mill  in  an  hour, 
and  I  came  up  for  the  dividers  that  I  loaned  Ellen ; 
do  you  know  where  they  are,  ma?" 

"Yes;  run,  Ada,  child;  look  in  the  top  bureau- 
drawer  at  the  left-hand  side." 

Ada  came  back  bringing  them,  and  he  hastened  to 
find  a  piece  of  paper  and  wrap  them  up.  Then  he 
helped  himself  to  a  glass  of  water,  straightened  him- 
self again,  and  prepared  to  go. 

"I  wonder,  Ada,  es  you're  seemin'  so  well,  ef  I 
couldn't  go  up  to  Elizabeth's  a  bit,"  the  grandmother 
remarked,  reflectively.  "  I've  been  wantin'  to  go  for 
a  week,  but  I  didn't  like  to  leave  the  house." 

"  Of  course ;  go  right  along.  You  say  you're  fond 
of  the  heat ;  I  wouldn't  go  out  in  it  for  the  best  mine 
in  the  camp." 


JEROLD'S  DIVIDERS.  215 

"I  don't  jest  like  leavin'  you  alone;  it's  Julie's 
afternoon  out,  you  know." 

"  Leaving  her  alone,"  observed  Jerold.  "  Any  one 
would  think  twice  before  venturing  near  her;  don't 
you  fear.  You  get  on  your  traps  and  I'll  take  you 
up." 

"Oh,  no,  boy;  I  wouldn't  think  of  keepin'  you 
from  work." 

"  I'll  be  in  time,  plenty ;  I  can  hurry  back.  There, 
there,  don't  hunt  around  for  excuses ;  I'll  take  you,  of 
course.     Ada,  get  her  bonnet." 

Ada  sauntered  leisurely  into  the  wardrobe,  and  re- 
turned with  her  grandmother's  bonnet  and  shawl, 
which,  with  many  a  pretty  coquetry  and  caress,  she 
managed  at  last  to  get  adjusted.  When  the  old  lady 
was  ready,  Jerold  carefully  took  her  arm  and  led  her 
out. 

"Good-by,  sweetheart,"  he  called,  mockingly,  back 
to  Ada,  but  she  only  shrugged  her  shoulders  for  reply. 

Tenderly  Jerold  helped  the  feeble  woman  along  the 
way,  choosing  for  her  the  gentlest  slopes  in  the  ascent. 
She  seemed  to  enjoy  the  heat; — it  got  into  her  old 
bones,  she  said,  and  limbered  them  up  so  she  could 
walk  better ; — and  soon  he  had  her  deposited  comfort- 
ably in  Elizabeth's  best  chair,  happy  in  the  change 
of  scene  and  the  presence  of  the  simple  family.  Then 
he  bade  them  good-by  and  hurried  back. 


216  ^  BLIND  LEAD, 

When  he  came  to  the  corner  where  he  had  begun  to 
ascend  the  hill  he  paused,  irresolute.  Twice  he  set  his 
face  and  commenced  the  descent  to  the  mill,  but  each 
time  returned  and  stood.  At  last  with  a  gesture,  as 
though  in  defiance  of  whatever  had  opposed  it,  he 
turned  and  walked  quickly  back  to  the  Wayburn 
cottage. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

A  EEVELATION. 

As  soon  as  she  was  left  alone,  Ada  settled  back  for 
the  luxury  of  a  nap;  but  the  heat  was  oppressive,  and, 
after  tossing  about  for  some  time,  she  arose.  Giving 
up  all  idea  of  sleep,  she  set  to  work  to  make  herself 
as  comfortable  as  possible.  She  wound  her  hair  again 
loosely  on  top  of  her  head  and  changed  her  stuff  dress 
for  a  thin  white,  that  fell  lightly  about  her.  Then, 
picking  up  a  sketch-book,  and  selecting  a  pencil,  she 
drew  a  chair  before  an  open  window  and  abandoned 
herself  to  the  enjoyment  of  her  one  talent. 

She  sat  for  some  time  sketching  the  cliffs  opposite. 
At  the  base  they  seemed  to  blend  into  each  other  in- 
distinguishably  in  the  sunshine.  The  line  of  the  slope 
melted  away,  and  that  purple  bar,  was  it  a  ledge  of  rock 
or  some  cloud  that  trailed  its  shadow  across  the  moun- 
tain? She  was  in  doubt  about  her  perspective  here. 
The  sunshine  was  walking  over  the  country,  staking 
out  new  boundaries  for  everything,  and  the  hills  were 
blinking  drowsily,  as  if  half  tired  of  the  panorama 
they  had  looked  upon  so  long.  She  rose  for  a  better 
view,  and  extending  her  arm,  proceeded  to  measure  off 
K  19  217 


218  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

some  distances  on  her  pencil,  but  she  dropped  it  again. 
Myriads  of  elves  were  playing  off  on  the  heights,  weav- 
ing their  rainbow  films  of  light  to  mesh  the  airy 
spirit  of  the  peaks.  She  rested  her  hand  against  the 
window-frame  and  forgot  herself  in  the  enchantment. 

Jerold  had  entered  by  a  side-door  and  stood  watch- 
ing her. 

She  had  fulfilled,  and  much  more  than  fulfilled,  the 
promise  of  her  youth  in  these  years.  She  was  just 
ripening  into  womanhood  now,  in  that  early  develop- 
ment begotten  of  the  quick  flow  of  life  in  such  places, 
and  was  the  acknowledged  beauty  of  the  camp. 

As  she  leaned  there,  lost  in  contemplation  of  those 
far-away  hills,  it  seemed  to  the  young  man  that  he  had 
never  beheld  a  creature  so  lovely.  The  dark  auburn 
hair  was  caught  up  gracefully  on  her  small  sym- 
metrical head;  but  stray  curls  stole  down  over  the 
little  pink  ears  and  clustered  about  neck  and  brow. 
The  face  was  rarely  fair,  that  clear,  warm  tint  that  be- 
longs with  the  richness  of  auburn.  The  outstretched 
arm  was  deeply  dimpled,  and  the  full  round  curves  of 
the  figure  were  just  suggested  under  the  thin  texture 
of  her  dress. 

The  young  man  stood  still.  He  had  noted  her 
beauty  many,  many  times,  and  his  pulses  had  quick- 
ened often  in  their  wild  sport,  but  to-day  it  came  over 
him  like  an  intoxication. 


A   REVELATION.  219 

For  a  loDg  time  he  watched  her.  A  revelation  was 
breaking  in  upon  his  heart,  a  revelation  so  sweet  yet 
so  dismaying,  it  allured  while  it  repelled  him.  Had 
he  ever  felt  thus  to  Ellen,  his  promised  wife, — Ellen, 
whose  life  was  in  his  keeping?  The  calm,  sluggish 
sentiment  he  felt  for  her, — was  that  love?  His  heart 
gave  a  bound  of  recognition;  he  loved  Ada,  Ada  not 
Ellen,  and  the  pain  of  the  thought  was  linked  with 
such  keen  pleasure  it  held  him  by  the  very  strange- 
ness of  its  power. 

But  the  voice  of  his  conscience  arose,  his  better  self, 
and  he  thought,  "  I  will  crush  it  out.  I  will  be  true  to 
Ellen,  even  as  she  is  true  to  me."  But  the  girl  was  still 
there,  and  the  influence  of  sense  was  fast  mastering  him. 

Very  quietly  he  crossed  the  room  and  closed  his 
hand  over  hers,  that  rested  against  the  window.  She 
started  with  a  little  scream  and  looked  around. 

"  Why,  Jerold  Bray !"  she  exclaimed  in  surprise. 
"You  frightened  me  so." 

As  she  stood,  the  soft  hair  just  touching  his  shoul- 
der, the  beautiful  lips  parted,  the  temptation  was  too 
strong:.  He  drew  her  to  him  and  rained  his  kisses 
upon  lips  and  cheek  and  brow. 

"  Why,  Jerold  !"  said  the  astonished  girl.  "  What 
is  the  matter  with  you  ?" 

"Matter!  What  should  be  the  matter?  Haven't 
I  kissed  you  hundreds  of  times  before?" 


220  A   BLIND  LEAD. 

"  Yes,  youVe  kissed  me  often  before,  but — ^but — I'm 
eighteen  now,  and  you  mustn't  do  so  again." 

He  laughed,  a  low,  musical  laugh.  She  looked  in 
his  boyish  face  aglow,  and  laughed  too. 

"  You  came  back  to  persecute  me,  did  you  V  she 
said.     "  Well,  I  won't  be  interrupted," 

She  seated  herself  and  went  on  with  her  sketching, 
and  Jerold  drew  a  chair  near  but  a  little  behind  her, 
where  he  could  see  and  correct  the  drawing.  They 
did  not  quarrel  this  afternoon.  Several  times  Ada 
broke  out  with  her  natural  rompishness,  but  he  caught 
her  hands  in  his  and  looked  down  into  her  eyes. 

"  We  must  be  friends  henceforth,"  he  said.  "  You 
and  I." 

"  I  like  you  a  great  deal  better  the  old  way,"  she 
pouted. 

"  No,  you  mustn't,"  decidedly.  "  The  new  is  best ; 
much  the  best."  And  she  was  obliged  to  yield.  Soon 
he  arose,  threw  himself  upon  the  sofa,  and  was  lost 
in  reflection. 

"I  thought  you  had  an  appointment,"  Ada  re- 
marked, suddenly  recalling  his  words. 

"  The  man's  gone  by  this,"  he  answered,  sullenly. 

His  mood  had  changed.  Conscience  was  awake 
again  and  lashing  him  with  her  thongs.  He  closed 
his  eyes  two  or  three  times  resolutely,  but  presently 
they  unclosed  again.     At  last  he  sat  erect. 


A  REVELATION.  221 

''  I'm  going,"  he  said,  shortly. 

"  Well,  it's  about  time,  sulkiness,"  with  a  return  of 
her  old  manner.  "  Besides,  this  sketch  is  just  done, 
and  I've  no  more  use  for  you." 

"  Done !  Then  bring  it  here  and  let  me  pass  upon 
it." 

She  seated  herself  beside  him  and  held  the  book 
out,  poising  her  head  on  one  side  and  eying  the  draw- 
ing critically.  He  glanced  at  the  sketch  a  moment 
and  then  at  her.  Conscience,  honor, — they  had  flown. 
He  drew  her  head  against  his  shoulder  and  whispered, 
recklessly, — 

"  Ada,  Ada,  I  love  you  !" 

To  the  young  girl  this  was  only  a  new  form  of  his 
accustomed  raillery,  and  she  struggled  to  escape.  An- 
other time  he  would  have  held  her  in  very  defiance, 
but  he  pleaded  with  her  to-day. 

"Do  not  leave  me,  Ada.  Kiss  me  once,  once 
willingly,  and  I  will  release  you." 

She  was  tempted  to  refuse,  but  something  in  the 
soft,  pleading  tones  went  to  her  heart.  She  turned  to 
him,  and  silently  he  pressed  hb  lips  upon  her  own. 
Then  his  arms  unclasped. 

He  rose,  walked  to  the  table,  reached  for  his  hat, 
and  came  slowly  back. 

"  I  have  wronged  you,  Ada,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  re- 
gretful voice.    "  Yes,  wronged  you  deeply ;  but  I  have 

19* 


222  A   BLIND  LEAD. 

wronged  another  more.  I  shall  not  seek  to  justify 
myself  to  you;  I  can  only  say  till  to-day  I  never 
knew  what  you  were  to  me  or  how  I  loved  you.  If 
ever  you  know  the  power  of  such  love  you  will  meas- 
ure what  I  suffer  and  what  I  bear." 

The  gentle  penitence,  so  unusual  in  Jerold,  softened 
Ada  to  compassion.  She  had  known  him  from  her 
childhood ;  he  had  been  to  her  always  aggravating,  but 
generous  and  affectionate  as  well.  That  he  was  suffer- 
ing was  the  one  fact  borne  in  upon  her  unsuspecting 
heart  by  the  afternoon's  experience. 

"  I  do  like  you,  Jerry,"  she  said,  assuringly,  "  very, 
very  much ;  and  I  am  sorry  for  you." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  myself,"  he  answered.  "  Yes,  sorry 
for  myself."     And  abruptly  he  left  the  house. 

Some  distance  off  he  met  Ellen  returning  from 
school.  She  carried  a  pile  of  books  on  her  arm  and 
looked  worn  and  exhausted.  Wishing  her  simply 
"  good-day,"  he  hurried  abstractedly  along. 


CHAPTER    XXyill. 

THE  CONFLICT. 

All  through  the  remaining  hours  of  that  eventful 
day  Jerold  sat  as  one  in  a  dream.  Vaguely  through 
liis  mind  for  over  a  year  had  flitted  at  times  a  sense  of 
change ;  but  with  his  easy  versatile  nature  he  had  cast 
the  mood  from  him.  Self-examination  was  not  one 
of  Jerold  Bray's  diversions.  Now  the  reality  that  he 
had  shunned  rose  in  its  vigor  and  hurled  itself  against 
his  consciousness  with  double  force  for  his  neglect.  It 
had  come,  a  spectre  into  his  life,  the  awful  fact ;  Ada 
was  beloved,  and  Ellen  was  so  no  longer. 

How  it  had  come,  and  when  and  why,  he  could  not 
tell,  but  to  its  truth  his  heart  bore  painful  testimony. 
What  was  to  be  done? 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  man  that,  the  first  burst 
of  repentance  over,  there  was  little  or  no  regret  for 
the  actions  of  the  day.  He  had  wronged  Ellen ;  but 
then  the  wrong  could  have  no  effect  unless  the  event 
should  come  to  her  knowledge,  and  on  that  point  he 
felt  secure.  He  had  had  his  hour  of  happiness,  and  no 
one  but  himself  was  suffering  for  it  as  he  could  see. 
Indeed,  the  whole  matter  would  by  this  have  been  set 

223 


224  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

aside  as  an  episode  simply  were  it  not  that  the  new 
force  of  love  held  him  and  would  not  be  dismissed. 

It  was  altogether  a  new  experience,  this,  to  the 
young  man,  and  that  he,  the  graceful,  cultured,  worldly 
Jerold,  should  be  so  overcome  chafed  him,  but  could 
not  work  his  cure.  His  feeling  for  Ellen  commended 
itself  to  his  taste  and  judgment;  she  was  unquestion- 
ably a  superior  woman.  Her  mental  attainments  made 
her  a  fitting  companion,  one  of  whom  he  might  be 
proud  anywhere,  and  her  character  challenged  his 
highest  respect.  In  Ada  he  saw  nothing  but  physi- 
cal beauty,  but,  ah!  that  beauty  drew  him  as  Ellen's 
grander  qualities  had  never  done. 

All  through  the  evening  he  sat  and  pondered.  It 
was  the  first  time  a  grave  question  had  come  to  him 
for  solution.  Ever  before  him  rose  the  pale,  patient 
face  of  Ellen, — Ellen,  whose  years  had  been  one  long 
sacrifice.  Why,  if  she  could  give  up  her  life  for 
others,  should  he  not  give  up  his  happiness  for  her? 
She  was  noble,  she  was  good,  and  she  loved  him  as  no 
other  ever  would.  She  was  not  exacting.  If  he  paid 
her  the  simple  attentions  of  common  courtesy  she 
would  be  satisfied,  and  need  never  know  that  his  heart 
was  capable  of  anything  stronger.  Or,  if  she  should 
crave  more  than  he  could  give,  let  her  lay  it  to  a 
deficiency  of  character, — he  had  plenty  such ;  why 
scruple  at   one   more?     Besides,   the  one  hope  that 


THE  CONFLICT.  225 

sustained  her  was  the  belief  that  some  day  she  would 
be  his  wife.  How  could  he  take  that  from  her  and 
send  her  back  to  the  dreariness  she  had  so  often  told 
him  was  her  portion  before  he  came?  Nay,  how 
much  greater  the  dreariness  for  what  had  been  I 

Then  his  honor  was  pledged  to  her, — and,  who 
knows?  he  might  grow  to  care  for  her  again  if  they 
were  married  and  he  had  always  before  him  the 
influence  of  her  quiet  devotion.  Yes,  all  things 
demanded  that  he  bury  his  secret.  Ada  would  not 
betray  it ;  she  could  not  in  her  innocence  comprehend 
the  meaning  of  what  had  passed ;  it  was  too  new  to 
her.  Besides,  the  reprimands  over  her  frolics  had 
taught  her  secretiveness.  He  could  trust  her,  and  they 
would  quickly  drift  back  into  their  old  relationship. 

Yes,  he  must  bury  his  secret,  and  he  bowed  his 
head  on  his  hands  and  sighed.  Over  him  broke  a 
wave  of  misery.  To  give  up  everything,  to  yearn  for 
a  joy  that  might  be  and  yet  thrust  it  back  and  go  on, 
was  that  life  ?  Yet  that  had  been  Ellen's  life.  How 
had  she  borne  it  ?  How  had  she  followed  where  duty 
led  and  not  faltered?  How  had  she  faced  what  destiny 
brought  her  and  not  quailed?  How  had  she  lived 
and  not  died  ?  The  longer  he  dwelt  on  the  record  of 
her  past  the  more  the  question  was  wrung  from  him, 
"How  had  she  lived?" 

He  was  going  through  a  part  of  her  experience  to- 
P 


226  A  BLIND  LEAD. 

night,  such  faint  small  portion  as  could  be  compassed 
within  its  hours  j  but,  from  the  weight  of  his  burden, 
he  was  coming  to  a  better  realization  of  tlie  heaviness 
of  hers.  *^  And  shall  I  add  to  it  this — this  treason?" 
he  cried.  "  I  will  give  up  my  love.  Ellen  is  nobler 
than  my  highest  dream  of  nobility,  and  I  will  give  up 
my  life  to  spare  her." 

But  the  spirit  of  unselfishness  was  not  in  him,  nor 
could  the  blood  of  the  martyr  course  in  such  unspirit- 
ual  veins.  Duty,  Right,  God,  were  not  words  that 
shook  the  foundations  of  his  being  or  held  the  first 
claim  to  his  allegiance. 

Soon  before  him  rose  the  vision  of  Ada  with  her 
dimpled  arms  and  superb  form;  Ada  with  her  resist- 
less smile  and  her  thousand  unconscious  witcheries. 
She  was  with  him.  He  could  see  the  bright  hair  curl- 
ing against  her  neck,  he  could  look  into  those  liquid 
eyes,  half  frightened,  half  trustful,  and  he  could  feel 
the  pressure  of  the  full  rich  lips  that  trembled  beneath 
his  own. 

"I  cannot!"  he  exclaimed,  rising  and  pacing  the 
floor.     "  I  cannot,  I  will  not !" 

"  Why  should  my  life  be  sacrifigsd  ?"  he  was  reason- 
ing now.  "  Wherein  have  I  transgressed  that  I  must 
be  wretched?  Is  it  my  fault  that  Ellen  loves  me? 
Why  didn't  she  marry  me  when  she  could,  and  I  was 
willing?     I  had  waited  for  her  long  enough." 


THE   CONFLICT.  227 

"Why  should  I  not  have  Ada?"  he  continued. 
"  She  is  fitted  to  me,  better,  far  better.  How  is  it  I 
never  realized  before  how  unsuited  Ellen  and  I  are? 
We  could  never  be  happy  together.  Besides,  the 
thought  of  Ada  would  haunt  me  always,  and  sooner  or 
later  Ellen  must  come  to  know  it.  Would  she  not 
suffer  more  then  than  now  in  the  knowledge?  And 
ought  I  to  marry  her,  loving  another?  Would  she 
not  feel  that  I  was  wronging  her  more  in  so  doing 
than  in  inflicting  the  pain  of  telling  her?"  And  so 
on  and  on  his  mind  argued  and  reasoned,  first  on  one 
side  and  then  on  the  other,  and  he  was  no  nearer  the 
solution  than  in  the  beginning. 

But  a  worse  tempter  came  in  the  darkness.  "  Ellen 
is  not  strong.  She  is  failing  fast.  Maybe  if  I  should 
marry  her,  who  knows?  she  might  not  last  long. 
But  meanwhile  the  other  might  have  married  too." 
And  the  thought  of  Ada  wedded  to  another  roused 
him  to  fury. 

"Never!  never!  will  any  one  have  her  but  me  I 
Not  all  hell  shall  keep  her  from  me !"  In  the  violence 
of  his  passion  he  snatched  up  his  hat  and  rushed  out 
into  the  night,  away  anywhere  to  cool  the  fever  that 
was  consuming  him. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

ON  THE  HEIGHT. 

The  dawn  was  breaking  as  the  young  man  emerged, 
but  he  took  no  note  of  the  hour.  He  walked  through 
the  town  and  its  far-stretching  outskirts,  away  across 
the  creek,  over  the  level  valley,  on  to  .the  Rocky  Range 
that  towered  beyond  and  began  its  steep  ascent.  At 
first  he  climbed  with  eager,  rapid  step,  but  gradually 
he  slackened  his  pace.  Still,  though  weary  with  the 
effort,  he  toiled  along,  up,  up,  as  though  someway  on 
the  heights  he  would  get  above  this  misery  and 
conflict. 

At  last,  breathless  and  exhausted,  he  reached  his 
goal.  It  was  cold  here,  but  what  was  that  to  him  ? 
His  brain  was  afire  and  the  blood  in  his  veins  like 
molten  lead.  He  seated  himself  on  a  ledge  of  rock 
and  looked  about.  Everywhere,  everywhere  the  same 
encircling  mountains,  grand,  wonderful.  A  flush  of 
radiance  streamed  over  the  eastern  skies;  slowly  the 
livid  orb  rose  out  of  the  unseen,  lit  the  great  snow 
peaks,  and  swept  down  the  mighty  slopes  into  the  saf- 
fron valleys.  The  whole  country  was  glowing  in  the 
splendor  of  the  morning. 
228 


ON  THE  HEIGHT.  229 

He  was  alone  with  Nature,  a  part  of  her  silence  and 
her  solitude.  What  were  time  and  change  to  these 
solid  masses  that  had  looked  down  upon  the  birth  of 
primal  man,  and  stood  through  the  ages  motionless? 
What  were  time  and  change  to  that  luminous  globe 
that  had  rolled  in  its  majesty  aeons  before  even  these 
mountains  were?  Somehow,  up  here  in  this  vastness  of 
space  and  time,  power  and  thought,  the  man's  feverish 
unrest  was  hushed,  the  trouble  of  his  soul  was  stilled. 
The  distant  town,  in  its  dim  haze  of  smoke,  seemed 
a  blot  on  the  fairness  of  creation,  and  the  memory  of 
the  turmoil  was  discord  in  its  peace. 

Amid  the  lifelessness  life  appeared,  to  the  young 
man,  a  something  other  than  he  had  thought.  How 
frail  it  was!  How  earnest  too!  The  purposes  that 
had  inspired  him  seemed  to  stand  out  in  their  little- 
ness. He  reviewed  his  past  for  the  first  time,  and  pro- 
nounced it  common,  aimless,  he  almost  said,  wortiiless. 

As  he  thought  of  the  episodes  of  the  day  and  night, 
a  tinge  of  shame  came  into  his  cheek.  He  had  been 
unmanly;  he  had  been  guilty;  he  had  been  base. 
How  could  he  prefer  Ada  to  Ellen!  Up  on  the 
mountain  crest,  in  the  midst  of  the  grandeur,  the 
thought  of  Ada  seemed  incongruous.  But  Ellen, 
with  her  aspirations,  her  sacrifices,  her  lofty  ideals, 
belonged  with  the  scene,  a  chord  natural  to  its  har- 
monies. 

20 


230  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

He  felt  for  the  first  time  a  dependence  upon  Ellen. 
How  could  this  nature  of  his  turn  from  its  littleness  to 
use  and  moral  worth  without  her  strong  guidance? 
All  his  hope  for  good  rested  in  her ;  he  freely  acknowl- 
edged it;  and  he  had  sinned  against  her,  willingly, 
deliberately,  unregrettingly.  He  would  blot  out  the 
record  now  were  it  possible;  but  that  could  not  be. 
He  would  do  what  alone  remained.  By  a  better  devo- 
tion he  would  repair  the  wrong  and  transform  his  life 
into  one  of  purpose  and  merit. 

He  sat  a  long  time  thinking,  and  when  at  last  he 
arose,  he  was  strong  in  his  resolve  and  fixed  in  his  in- 
tention. His  old  equanimity  returned  with  the  settling 
of  his  mind,  for  heart  and  conscience  were  reconciled 
again. 

With  a  light,  elastic  tread  he  began  the  descent, 
whistling  cheerfully,  for  his  peace  had  restored  his 
buoyancy  of  spirits.  He  hastened  back  over  valley 
and  creek,  and  reached  the  town  as  the  mine  whistles 
were  announcing  the  hour  of  noon. 

He  was  very  hungry  now,  and,  being  a  practical 
man,  he  decided  to  fortify  his  new  resolutions  with  a 
savory  tonic.  He  entered  a  restaurant,  called  for  a 
bountiful  dinner,  and  ate  it  with  relish.  Then  he  went 
down  to  the  mill  and  spent  his  afternoon  in  the  details 
of  business. 

After  office  hours  he  came  back  to  town,  ate  his 


ON  THE  HEIGHT.  231 

supper,  and  sauntered  leisurely  to  his  rooms.  He  was 
satisfied  and  cheerful  almost  to  merriment.  He  lit  all 
the  gas-jets.  "Nothing  like  illumination  for  good 
spirits,"  he  observed,  pleasantly. 

Seating  himself  in  the  big  easy-chair,  he  leaned 
back  comfortably,  content  with  himself  and  with  the 
world. 

He  happened  to  glance  across  the  room,  then  he 
started  and  leaped  up.  On  the  little  table,  in  the 
purple  plush  frame  where  had  been  a  photograph  of 
Ada  as  a  little  girl,  was  now  her  commencement  pic- 
ture. She  had  promised  him  one,  and  in  her  sweet 
conciliating  innocence  had  come  to  prove  her  forgive- 
ness by  bringing  it. 

He  snatched  it  up  and  hurried  to  the  light.  Yes, 
there  she  was,  as  beautiful  almost  as  in  person.  The 
arras  were  bare  and  the  soft  full  throat.  The  hair  was 
dressed  high,  which  added  to  her  years,  and  she  gained 
a  stateliness  from  the  sweeping  train;  but  the  same 
glorious  eyes,  the  same  rich  curve  of  form,  the  same 
dimpled  cheek,  the  same  mischievous  smile  on  the 
perfect  mouth.     He  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 

"  It  is  too  cruel !  too  cruel !     I  cannot  bear  it !" 

The  old  conflict  was  back  in  its  intensity.  The  old 
fever  of  passionate  longing  was  rekindled.  He  sat 
plunged  in  thought,  living  all  his  struggle  over  again, 
distracted  by  the  same  doubts  and  temptations.    It  was 


232  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

growing  late ;  it  seemed  to  him  hours  that  he  had  sat 
there ;  but  he  rose  at  last,  and  stood  still,  very  still. 
He  had  settled  it,  all,  all ;  and  he  was  frightened  at 
his  own  resolve.  But  he  did  not  hesitate  or  draw 
back. 

"  I  shall  end  it,"  he  said,  calmly ;  and,  taking  up  his 
hat,  he  walked  deliberately  out. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 


A  LAST  APPEAL. 


The  night  was  perfect,  a  clear  Jane  night.  The 
full  moon  shed  its  glory  over  the  camp,  and,  like  the 
wand  of  a  fairy,  transformed  things  the  most  homely 
and  commonplace  into  beautiful  creations  of  fancy. 
The  tall  court-house  towered  a  stately  castle  with 
domes  and  turrets ;  the  simple  churches  became  cathe- 
drals with  noble  spires ;  the  low  levels  of  the  valley  a 
smooth,  inland  sea. 

The  business  streets  were  alive,  as  they  always  were, 
with  excitement,  but  off  their  thoroughfares  all  was 
quiet  and  in  kee})ing  with  the  night. 

A  man  was  walking  slowly  towards  the  outskirts 
of  the  town.  He  paused  constantly  to  drink  in  the 
beauty,  and  as  he  lifted  his  face  to  the  open  skies,  one 
could  read  in  its  outlines  a  sadness  that  was  profound. 
His  eyes  moving  over  the  scene  before  him  turned  to 
tlie  cemetery  and  rested  there  lovingly  and  longingly. 

He  reached  a  corner,  and  quickening  his  steps,  he 
entered  the  gate  and  knocked  at  the  open  door  of  the 
Wayburn  cottage. 

20*  233 


234  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

There  was  a  light  in  the  room,  and  at  a  table  sat 
Ellen  poring  over  a  pile  of  papers. 

"  I'm  glad  you're  to  home,"  he  observed,  as  he  en- 
tered the  door-way. 

"I'm  always  at  home  now,  Robert.  These  last 
days  of  school  demand  night  work  and  day  work," 
she  answered,  pleasantly. 

She  led  the  way  as  once  before,  three  years  ago,  and 
showed  him  into  the  long,  low  parlor.  All  was  the 
same.  To  Robert,  that  night  seemed  like  yesterday, 
so  familiar  was  everything  about. 

Robert  Hall  was  by  no  means  an  uncommon  visitor  at 
the  house.  The  fact  of  his  rejection  and  its  publicity 
bad  in  no  respect  altered  his  cordiality  with  the  family. 
They  were  friends  of  a  lifetime,  all,  and  while  his  inter- 
course partook  of  none  of  the  freedom  which  character- 
ized Jerold  Bray's  footing,  it  was  none  the  less  sincere. 

Lately  Robert's  visits  had  been  rather  more  fre- 
quent, and  had  occurred,  whether  intentionally  or  by 
accident,  almost  always  when  Jerold  also  was  present. 
It  was  part  of  his  delicate  honor,  Ellen  thought,  that 
Jerold  could  have  no  occasion  to  feel  that  he  was  still 
a  rival.  But  sometimes  she  had  caught  in  his  eyes  a 
look  so  stern  and  searching,  she  was  surprised  and 
pained  at  the  expression.  To-night  she  was  alone. 
The  family  were  taking  a  stroll  in  the  moonlight,  and 
she  was  left  to  her  task. 


A  LAST  APPEAL.  235 

Robert  watchetl  her  now  as  she  stopped  under  the 
h'ght.  She  had  not  sunk  at  her  post  as  he  had  pre- 
dicted. Who  can  estimate  the  power  of  the  soul  over 
the  body,  or  tell  how  far  the  mind  can  sway  the  vital 
forces?  She  lived,  and  her  soul  was  firm  as  when  she 
took  up  her  burden  again,  on  that  eventful  night  that 
was  someway  in  the  minds  of  both  as  they  sat  here 
again. 

Her  face,  however,  was  very  white,  and  the  blue 
veins  on  the  pure  smooth  forehead  stood  out  as  though 
pencilled. 

But  while  the  face,  never  artistically  handsome,  had 
lost  much  even  of  the  symmetry  it  had  once  possessed, 
the  impress  of  the  spiritual  had  deepened  in  every 
line ;  and  that  spirit  shone  so  lofty,  so  chastened,  she 
seemed  to  the  man  beside  her  clothed  in  a  beauty  that 
was  almost  radiant. 

"  You  don't  seem  jest  es  w^ell  es  usual,''  he  said, 
looking  at  her  kindly. 

"The  last  of  the  term  my  strength  does  give  out 
a  little.  It's  the  warm  weather  though,  mostly ;  that 
and  the  extra  work." 

"  I  was  afeard  you  wouldn't  be  equal  to  the  teachin'." 

"  Which  I  have  been,"  she  persisted,  smiling. 
"  Next  week  comes  rest,  a  whole  summer  of  rest,  and 
I  shall  be  myself  again." 

He  looked  at  her  compassionately. 


236  -^  BLIND  LEAD. 

"What  is  ther*  in  the  world  es  obstinate  es  a 
woman !"  he  said. 

She  walked  to  the  window  and  drew  down  the 
shade,  and  her  step  as  she  did  so  was  slow  and  hesitant. 
Then  she  returned.  As  he  glanced  up  and  saw  in  her 
face  the  brave,  patient  smile,  a  scowl  settled  over  his 
features ;  but  it  gradually  passed  away,  and  left  in  its 
place  the  expression  of  indescribable  sadness. 

Two  or  three  times  he  commenced  to  speak,  but  each 
time  the  look  in  her  face  someway  silenced  him. 

"  Ellen,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  voice  that  strove  to 
be  impassive,  and  with  his  natural  abruptness, — 
"  Ellen,  I  come  here  to-night  t'  ask  you  again  to  be 
my  wife.'' 

Her  hands  dropped,  her  head  fell,  and  her  disap- 
pointment was  undisguised. 

"  I  had  hoped,  Robert,  that  that  was  past ;  that  you 
had  conquered  it,"  she  said. 

"Past I  It  can  never  be  past!''  he  said,  passion- 
ately, then  checking  himself  and  becoming  calm.  "  I 
asked  you  before,  Ellen,  to  be  my  wife  for  my  sake, 
now  I  ask  you  for  your  own." 

"  For  my  own  ?     I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  Don't  ask  me  t'  explain ;  I  can't." 

"  Can't  ?    Those  are  strange  words,"  she  said. 

"  An'  strange  they  got  to  remain,  but  true.  I  beg 
you  very  earnestly  to  listen  to  me  and  be  persuaded." 


A   LAST  APPEAL.  237 

"  Persuaded  to  marry  when  I  love  anotlier !  That 
is  hardly  in  keeping  with  the  principles  I  supposed  we 
both  professed." 

"  Ellen,"  he  protested,  *^  don't  you  jedge  me  by  ap- 
pearances, nor  don't  you  condemn  me  beforehand.  I 
can't  speak  to  justify  myself  nor  show  you  I'm  right 
in  what  I  seek.  I  can  only  ask, — give  me  the  right  to 
pertect  you."  . 

His  voice  was  strong  and  earnest,  and  bis  words 
shook  her  strangely. 

"  Protect  me  ?  Protect  me  from  what  ?"  she  faltered. 
The  color  was  fading  from  her  lips  now  and  the  thin 
hands  shook,  for  a  sense  of  danger  had  vibrated  in  his 
tones. 

He  looked  at  her  sorrowfully,  with  such  a  depth  of 
pity  in  his  true  eyes,  she  came  very  near  to  him  and 
laid  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Tell  me,  Robert,  what  threatens  me,"  she  said, 
steadying  her  voice  as  well  as  she  could.  "  You  are 
my  friend  and  I  can  bear  it.  Tell  me  freely  what 
threatens  me." 

"I  am  your  friend,  Ellen,  an'  I  can't  tell  you. 
Don't  ask  me."  Seeing  her  gesture  of  remonstrance, 
"  I  would  if  I  could,  but  I  can't,  I  can't" 

"  And  you  claim  to  be  my  friend  ?"  she  asked. 

"  We've  knowed  each  other  from  little  children ;  if 
I've  once  been  false  or  selfish  with  you,  you  can  doubt 


238  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

me  now ;  if  I  ain't,  youVe  a  right  to  b'lieve  me,"  he 
answered,  with  dignity. 

"  I  do  not  doubt  you,  Robert ;  you  know,  whatever 
I  may  say,  my  heart  attests  your  faithfulness/' 

"  Then  let  my  faithfulness  speak  for  me.  I  promise 
you,  Ellen,  I'll  never  claim  no  right  es  a  husband. 
I'll  never  ask  you  fer  one  touch  of  love  or  one 
word  of  affection,  though  my  heart  '11  break  in  its 
longin'  fer  you.  I'll  go  from  you  in  a  hour,  if  you 
say  it,  an'  never  look  on  your  face  again,  only  take 
the  shelter  of  my  name.  My  name's  respected;  my 
money's  a  power.  Oh,  Ellen  !  it's  the  last  prayer  you'll 
ever  hear  from  my  lips,  take  the  shelter  of  my  name." 

The  great  tears  stood  in  his  eyes  as  he  pleaded,  tears 
that  had  not  risen  there  when  a  mother  and  sister  had 
left  him  forever,  but  he  heeded  them  not. 

"  There  is  something  to  fear.  What  it  is  I  can't  tell 
you.  When  it'll  come  I  can't  tell  you,  fer  I  don't 
know ;  but  come  it  will,  an'  ev^rythin',  ev'ry thin'  to  my 
life  I'd  give  to  spare  you.  You're  sensitive  an'  the 
world's  cruel.  The  sorrow  of  your  own  heart  you've 
got  to  bear,  but  the  world's  cruelty,  let  me  save  you 
from  that?" 

She  looked  into  the  strong,  noble  face  that  was 
eloquent  in  its  tenderness. 

"Your  words  are  mysterious,  Robert,"  she  said. 
''Were   it  any  one   but  you  I  should   ignore   them 


A  LAST  APPEAL.  239 

because  of  their  mystery,  but  with  you, — I  am  sure 
you  speak  out  of  knowledge  and  out  of  love  for  me. 
I  do  not  know  what  calamity  hangs  over  me.  You 
know,  and  I  believe  you,  and  my  heart  is  full  of  your 
warning.  In  life  I  have  wronged  no  one ;  the  name 
of  Ellen  Way  burn  is  an  honest  one.  If  any  other  of 
the  name  has  brought  shame  upon  it,  it  is  still  mine, 
and  in  being  mine,  honest;  and  if  any  dishonor  at- 
taches and  I  must  take  refuge  from  it,  you  forget, 
Robert,  that  another,  as  true  a  man  as  even  you,  stands 
ready  to  offer  the  shelter  of  his  name,  and  that  I  am 
pledged  his  wife." 

Her  manner  was  frank  yet  proud,  and  the  strong 
man  bowed  his  head. 

"  My  God  I  an'  this  is  my  answer  ?" 

"  This  is  your  answer,"  she  replied,  calmly.  "  What- 
ever comes,  since  it  promises  my  marriage,  it  cannot  be 
altogether  a  misfortune."     And  she  blushed  slightly. 

He  glanced  in  her  face  and  his  heart  failed  him. 
The  look  of  foreboding  had  given  place  to  the  sweet, 
trustful  light  of  love,  and  a  happy  smile  played  about 
her  lips. 

"My  best  prayer  was  always  for  you,  Ellen,"  he 
said,  rising,  "an'  my  last  hope  of  savin'  you  is  gone." 

"Do  not  say  so.  If  only  you  could  tell  rae  what 
you  fear  I  might  see  differently.  You  are  very  good, 
and  I  do  appreciate  the  honor  you  have  done  me." 


\ 


240  ^  BLIND  LEAD, 

*^  Honor !  I  wasn't  tryin'  to  honor  you.  I  love  you 
fer  myself;  I'd  a  waited  an'  sought  you  always  if  you 
hadn't  chose  another,  but — but " 

"  As  you  say,  Robert,  I  love  another.  Were  it  not 
so  I  would  be  yours,  proudly,  gLadly  yours,  for  no  one 
could  be  your  wife,  know  your  nobility,  and  not  love 
you.  There  is  not  a  man  living  whose  character  I 
esteem  as  I  do  yours.  But  while  my  love  for  another 
lasts  and  his  for  me  we  are  pledged  to  each  other,  and 
nothing  could  induce  me  to  be  untrue." 

He  was  silent.  In  his  heart  a  deep  outreaching 
hope  still  lived,  a  hope  that  was  not  to  be  crushed. 

"  Ellen/'  he  asked,  coming  and  standing  close  beside 
her,  "  if  you'd  never  loved  Jerold  would  you  a  been 
mine  ?" 

^^  Yes,"  she  said. 

"  An'  if  the  time  '11  ever  come  when  you'll  cease  to 
love  him,  will  you  be  mine  then  ?" 

She  hesitated. 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

He  turned,  and  without  another  word  he  walked  out. 
The  sitting-room  was  lighted,  and  he  passed  through  it 
to  the  door.  On  the  threshold  he  met  a  man  entering. 
For  a  moment  they  stood  face  to  face,  Robert  Hall  and 
Jerold  Bray,  and  gazed  in  each  other's  eyes.  What 
they  read  there  was  unspoken,  but  for  a  moment 
Robert  Hall  laid  his  large,  firm  hand  on  his  rival's 


A   LAST  APPEAL.  241 

shoulder.  The  clasp  tightened,  and  for  an  instant  the 
younger  man  felt  that  he  was  in  the  grasp  of  a  giant. 
Tiien  slowly  the  fingers  unlocked,  and  Jerold,  shaking 
them  angrily  oif,  passed  within. 

"  Traitor  and  villain  I"  hissed  from  the  strong  man's 
lips  as  he  strode  into  the  moonlight.  "  Traitor  and 
villain !     Better  death  itself  than  life  with  you." 


21 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

FREE. 

Ellen  stood  leaning  against  the  mantel  just  as 
Robert  Hall  had  left  her.  Whether  her  mind  had 
grown  alert  from  the  suspicions  aroused  there,  or 
whether  Jerold's  face  betrayed  the  change  that  had 
come  to  him,  certain  it  was  that  a  sense  of  approach- 
ing calamity  fastened  itself  upon  her  soul  the  moment 
she  beheld  him. 

"  You  have  something  to  tell  me,  Jerold,"  she  said, 
excitedly.     "What  is  it?" 

He  was  startled  by  her  suddenness.  He  had  thought 
out  on  his  way  how  he  would  break  it  to  her,  and  it 
did  not  commence  at  all  like  this. 

"No,  nothing.      Nothing  yet — that  is '^     And 

he  hesitated. 

"  Yes,  Jerold ;  you  cannot  deceive  me." 

"  Nonsense  !  Come  and  sit  down  and  be  yourself." 
In  his  confusion  he  abandoned  all  thought  of  telling 
to-night.  He  began  to  realize  how  hard  a  task  he 
had  set  himself.  "  Where  are  the  folks,  and  what  are 
you  all  doing  ?  Do  come  and  sit  down." 
242 


FREE.  243 

He  was  annoyed  now  that  she  seemed  to  have  sus- 
pected anything  amiss,  and  was  as  desirous  of  escaping 
the  issue  as  he  had  been  before  of  meeting  it. 

"  Jerold,  something  has  happened  ;  you  know  it  and 
I  know  it.  When  you  have  told  me  I  shall  sit  down, 
until  then  I  shall  stand  here." 

"Who  said  anything  had  happened?''  he  asked, 
angrily. 

"  Your  own  face." 

"  My  face  lied,  then,"  he  said,  doggedly.  "  Don't 
stand  there  and  catechise  me.  I  wish  the  rest  would 
come.     This  is  deuced  stupid  business." 

A  pained  look  spread  over  her  face.  For  once  she 
did  not  trust  his  words.  His  manner  belied  him,  and 
she  did  not  speak. 

"  I  met  Hall  as  I  came  in,"  he  said,  to  divert  the 
subject.     "What's  he  got  to  say?" 

"  Nothing.     He  called  on  private  business." 

"  Private  business  ?  What  private  business  has  he, 
pray?" 

Jerold  was  a  man  of  gentlemanly  pretensions.  His 
late  experiences  had  made  him  irritable,  however,  and 
Ellen's  persistence  made  him  more  so.  The  tone  in 
which  he  asked  the  question  was  sharp  and  cutting, 
and  the  blood  came  surging  up  and  flushing  her  sensi- 
tive face. 

"  His  business,  Jerold,"  she  answered,  with  dignity, 


244  ^   BLIND  LEAD. 

"  being  private  should  be  beyond  your  inquiry.  Since, 
however,  you  do  question,  I  shall  tell  you.  He  came 
here  to  ask  me  again  to  become  his  wife." 

He  was  silent  a  moment.  Then  a  thought  shot 
through  his  brain.  Here  was  a  deliverance  beyond 
his  best  hope.  Robert  was  rich  ;  he  was  worthy ;  she 
would  come  to  love  him;  why  not?  He  clutched  at 
the  prospect  instantly,  and  his  eagerness  spoke  in  his 
accent  and  his  words. 

"  He's  a  fine  fellow.  Hall.  A  very  fine  fellow, 
"What  did  you  answer?" 

"  Jerold  !"     The  voice  was  hurt  and  reproachful. 

"He  can  offer  you  much  more  than  I.  Robert 
Hall's  choice  will  be  a  woman  to  be  envied." 

"  Jerold  !"  Her  eyes  were  growing  larger  and  larger 
and  her  breath  was  coming  quick  and  short. 

"You  never  spoke  so  before,  Jerold,  Would  you 
have  me  marry  him  for  his  money  ?" 

"Not  for  his  money, — no,"  he  answered,  hesi- 
tatingly. 

"  I  do  not  love  him." 

"  You  would  when  you  were  his  wife." 

"His  wife!"  He  spoke  it  so  calmly,  a  pain  as 
from  a  dagger-thrust  went  through  her  heart.  Sud- 
denly she  darted  into  his  face  a  look,  so  keen,  so 
agonized,  her  features  were  fairly  distorted.  The 
truth  of  her  spirit  had  leaped  to  the  truth  in   his, 


FREE.  245 

and   with   the   sureness   of   intuition    she    knew   the 
reality. 

"  Jerold  Bray/'  she  said  slowly,  in  a  voice  hard  and 
cold  as  iron,  *'  you  have  come  to  break  our  engage- 
ment." 

He  rose  from  his  chair,  so  startled  was  he  at  the 
unnaturalness  of  the  tone  and  the  unexpectedness  of 
the  accusation.  The  truth  struck  him  dumb,  and  he 
sought  in  vain  for  fitting  speech. 

"No,  not  just  that,''  he  stammered.    "Not  break  it." 

"Let  me  claim  as  my  last  right  truthfulness.  You 
came  here  to-night  to  break  our  engagement." 

He  turned  away  in  baffled  silence.  He  was  ashamed. 
The  fact  looked  ugly  as  she  expressed  it.  He  had  not 
counted  on  just  this  scene,  or  on  just  this  development. 
But  she  had  insisted  on  pinning  him  to  the  truth,  and 
left  him  no  opportunity  for  softening  it. 

There  was  a  long  leaden  silence.  The  girl's  face  as 
she  stood  was  ashen.  One  hand  grasped  the  mantel 
for  support  and  the  other  worked  convulsively.  There 
was  a  sound  in  the  sitting-room  beyond  of  the  family 
that  had  returned  and  a  great  excitement  and  commo- 
tion, but  it  made  no  impression  on  her  consciousness. 

At  last  she  spoke,  calmly  but  scarcely  audibly, — 

"  Your  wish  is  my  law." 

"  No  !  Ellen,  no  !"  he  broke  out,  extending  his  hand 
and  going  towards  her,  but  she  waved  him  back. 

21* 


246  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

''  There  is  no  need  to  spare  my  feelings ;  I  have  none. 
Do  not  insult  me  with  any  show  of  sympathy." 

"Oh,  Ellen,  I  was  wrong!  Forgive  me.  I  do 
love  you." 

"  Love  me !  The  love  that  once  questioned  its  own 
being  is  dead,  and  for  such  there  is  no  resurrection.  It 
is  all  past  between  us,  past  forever.  As  my  right  I 
would  ask  you,  why  you  wish  it — our  engagement — 
broken?" 

He  did  not  answer.  He  could  not.  He  only  stood 
like  a  culprit,  and  was  mute. 

"  Jerold,  my  honor  is  entitled  to  so  much  considera- 
tion.    Will  you  answer  me  ?" 

"I  love — another."  The  words  came  as  though 
wrung  from  him. 

"  And  that  other  is — ^tell  me,  Jerold." 

"Ada." 

She  staggered  back  against  the  wall,  and  he  leaped 
forward  to  catch  her,  but  she  recoiled  from  him  as 
from  a  scorpion. 

"  Do  not  touch  me,"  she  gasped. 

He  sat  again  on  the  sofa,  and  slowly  she  gathered 
her  strength  and  stood  up. 

There  was  something  about  her  whole  figure  so 
crushed,  so  broken,  the  young  man  felt  the  guilt  of 
a  criminal  on  his  soul.  The  rigidity  of  her  face  re- 
mained.    Her  hands  were  twitching  and  her  eyes  were 


FREE.  247 

hard  and  set.  She  felt  that  her  agony  was  being  re- 
vealed, and  all  the  pride  that  was  left  was  summoned 
to  help  her  conceal  it.  She  spoke  at  last,  but  her  voice 
was  very  low. 

"  The  years  that  I  have  known  you  have  been  happy 
ones.  For  these  I  thank  you.  Your  love  was  very 
precious ;  mine  I  gave  you  freely  in  return.  I  do  not 
blame  you  for  loving  Ada ;  she  is  all  that  is  good  and 
beautiful,  and  I  have  grown  old  doing  my  duty.  Take 
this  ring," — and  she  drew  from  her  finger  the  pretty 
pearl  he  had  placed  there, — "  and  tell  Ada,  if  she  can 
receive  it,  that  Aunt  Ellen  sent  with  it  her  deepest, 
truest  blessing."  As  she  handed  him  the  ring  his 
fingers  just  touched  hers,  and  they  were  cold  as 
stone. 

"  And  now,  Jerold,"  she  said  with  dignity,  "  I  re- 
lease you.     Our  engagement  is  over.     Good-by." 

Silently  he  took  his  hat  and,  leaving  the  door  ajar, 
went  out. 

In  the  sitting-room  the  commotion  continued,  and 
as  he  appeared  some  one  called  out  eagerly, — 

"  Why,  Jerry,  Jerry,  come !  Where's  Ellen?  Get 
Ellen  !  Such  glorious,  glorious  news !  They  Ve  struck 
it  rich  in  the  Elm  Orlu !" 

Through  the  open  door  the  words  floated  in  to  the 
stricken  girl.  Her  heart  gave  one  mighty  throb. 
"At  last!  she  was   free!"  but  in   the  same   instant 


248  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

flashed  through  it  that  other  truth :  "  Too  late !  too 
late !     She  was  forsaken  !" 

There  was  a  sound  as  of  a  low  moan,  then  of  some- 
thing falling  heavily.  When  they  rushed  in  and  raised 
her,  the  poor  crushed  heart  of  Ellen  Wayburn  was  at 
rest, — at  rest,  and  at  rest  forever. 


CHAPTER  XXXIL 


At  the  side  of  the  grave,  with  uncovered  heads,  were 
standing  two  men.  One  was  slender  and  graceful,  the 
other  tall,  rugged,  and  majestic  as  the  mountains  that 
surrounded  them.  The  hands  of  one  fell  drooping 
by  his  side,  and  his  shapely  head  was  bowed  with  its 
weight  of  grief;  the  arms  of  the  other  were  folded 
across  his  breast,  his  head  was  erect,  and  he  looked  out 
across  the  grave  to  the  distant  heavens.  Ever  the  light 
frame  trembled  and  was  shaken  with  deep  sobs,  but 
the  rugged  form  was  motionless  and  betrayed  not  a 
trace  of  sorrow. 

Presently  they  lowered  the  coffin,  and  heaped  upon 
it  the  rich,  fragrant  flowers.  There  was  a  pause ;  the 
deep,  awful  silence  that  precedes  the  final  act.  Every 
head  in  that  assembly  was  bowed,  every  eye  was  wet 
with  tears,  and  here  and  there  a  low  wail  broke  forth 
as  some  heart  became  too  burdened.  But  calm,  un- 
moved, the  strong  man  stood.  His  countenance  was 
lit  up  with  a  smile,  gentle  and  beautiful.  The  setting 
sun  came  out  for  a  moment  from  behind  a  cloud  and 

249 


250  ^  BLIND  LEAD. 

flooded  him  with  its  beams.  He  gazed  into  the  skiea^, 
and  a  joy  that  was  born  of  his  faith  shone  out  in  his 
brave,  true  face.  It  was  as  if  the  angel  of  the  Unseen 
and  the  Eternal  had  passed  over  and  left  on  his  brow 
the  serenity  of  peace. 

Quietly  the  minister  stepped  forth.  "Ashes  to 
ashes,  dust  to  dust,''  and  the  earth  dropped  down  upon 
the  coffin.  As  it  fell  with  its  dull  heavy  thud  a  light, 
glad,  triumphant,  shone  in  the  eyes  of  Robert  Hall,  a 
sigh  like  the  breath  of  a  liberated  spirit  broke  from 
his  lips,  and  upward  was  wafted  one  whispered  word,-— 
"  Mine." 


THE  END. 


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